The Rising
by Yseult
Summary: When his world lies in utter ruin, Arthur must face his calling, his love and the memory of fallen friends. AU, another twist at the legend. (Chapter 8-2 up)
1. Foreboding I

A quick Introduction: 

This story is supposing that there passes a considerable amount of time between the withdrawal of the Roman Legions from Hadrian's Wall at the end of the 4th century and the massive invasion of the Saxons which is preceded by some minor incursions by the Barbarian threat on the Islands. The saving of Marius Honorius and Alecto has not taken place. Dagonet is very much alive. Arthur and Guinevere are not an item (yet) and a truce between the Woads and the knights has been decided, in fact they're starting to fight the Saxons side by side.

For those historically interested among you: I had to advance Pelagius' death about 11 years… Which means we're just somewhere in September around 408 AD, only days before Alaric I. (Germanic leader of the Visigoths) lays his first barbarian siege to the heart of the Western World: Rome. Unfortunately for any political correctness, my Saxons speak (or at least sing) German. Please bear with me.

All changes to actual historical facts are solely made in favour of the story and I apologise in advance if someone feels annoyed by the errors that might follow from those changes.

Note/Disclaimer: All depicted actions of war and battles are fictitious in regard to their exact place and date, if not mentioned otherwise. All similarities with original places or persons, other novels, films or work of art are purely meant as a reverence to said pieces of art or simply unintentional.

**No slash-content intended. The reader may read into every line what he wants, but beware of secondguessing any intentions of the author.**

Comments and Reviews are always much appreciated and will earn you my deepest thanks!

Rating: PG-13 (battle, blood, mild language and possibly erotic content as the story unfolds)

* * *

**_I. Foreboding_**

Softly the first grey light crept above the rim of the hill, while the sky above the knight's head remained in its nightly dark blue, as if fighting against the rise of the new day. Already, the stars were waning and yielding their shiny force to the rising light. Milky mist – so elemental of this island – covered the lush green plane that lay drinking the early morning's dew.

A soft neigh rose from the last trees on the foot of the hill, followed by an uneasy shift of balance and impatient hooves.

"I know, Nascien…" The knight softly patted his steed's neck to calm his own uneasiness. "It's too calm to be true, is it not?"

As if in agreement, the mount shook his head and shifted again. Both, knight and white steed, had kept guard throughout the night when all around them appeared to be soundly asleep. Nothing had bothered them all night, not even the nightly animals of the forest had stirred.

A soft rustle of leaves that sounded unnaturally harsh in this silence, made him turn around and prompted his hand to the hilt of his sword.

"It's me…" came from among the trees and suddenly a figure appeared in the darkness of the woodwork.

Exhaling, the tensed hand relaxed its grip on the sword.

"Tristan! You bloody fool…" he hissed. "You of all should know better than to creep up on me like this…"

A hint of a smirk appeared on the usually stern face of the newly arrived man. Although his appearance could be called shaggy in the best of situations, it didn't really mask the sturdy and battle-proven body of a great warrior.

"If I had really wanted to 'creep up on you', you'd be dead by now…" he offered in a hushed tone, grinning and pushing some of his plaited hair back.

The knight offered a sound of frustration from his perched position. "Anything…?"

"No. I just came to offer you something to eat…" Tristan said as he started playing with an apple that somehow had appeared in his hands, "…but seeing that you're in such a foul mood, I should probably keep it".

Another sound of frustration, this time rather dismissive.

"Keep it then." - "What is it? You itching? Not seen enough action lately?" Tristan offered, suddenly struck by the knight's tensed composure.

"Nah… It's just…" He shifted in his saddle. "…something. I can't say what."

"I know. It's too calm. Even the trees are holding their breath." An unseen shiver crept up Tristan's spine. Yes, something was afoot. But covered in the soft rising morning light, it hadn't shown itself yet. To the instinct of a warrior however, everything was screaming danger. Louder than a picket ever could.

"Ease up." He said, looking back up to the knight still seated on his mount, betraying his own apprehension. "How is your arm anyway?" and, apple still in hand, he pointed at the knight's left arm covered in white linen.  
"It's fine." Came the short (and annoyed) answer.  
"The Saxon blade did cut rather deep, if you ask me. Which of course you don't." The scout said, raising one eyebrow and biting heartily into the apple he had offered before.  
"I didn't say that it didn't hurt, now, did I?" More annoyance.  
"Let me have a look…" and with that Tristan moved to the knight's left side, stuffing the half eaten apple in his belt. He was careful not to show the disquiet that had befallen him at seeing the pale face of his friend only moments before.  
"Leave it, Tristan." But his fellow knight had already taken his arm and started to unwrap the bandage that covered a fierce slash to his upper left arm, dealt by a Saxon blade the morning before. He hissed as the last piece of bandage come off the still open wound and the cool morning breeze hit his arm. _Stupid_, he thought.

"It's infected" Tristan only stated the obvious. "And the pallor in your face and your sour mood only show it too well." He started pulling out a new bandage and a small water skin from his friend's saddle bag.  
"Well, that cannot be helped now, can it?" The knight answered impatiently, still keeping his eyes on the land below him, still tensed. _Bloody stupid._

"No." Tristan said while dressing the wound and noting how the skin around it had turned fiercely red.  
"How are the others?" The question finally came.  
"Gawain… well, he's still weak, but not feverish, as you are. Which is a blessing, really. Couldn't stand both of your bad tempers as it is. We're all strained and tense, but… Hold still, boy." He pinned the end of the white cloth under the rest of the bandage and looked up, the ending of his sentence lost.

Silence. Only a distinct frown on the man's face showed that he had even heard what the scout had just told him.  
"It's not your fault. None of it is."  
"If I had kept a better vanguard…" he started. "Galahad." Tristan cut him off, shaking his head. "We have had enough battles in our lives. Stop battling yourself for once, will you?" he said, looking up into the greenish brown eyes of the younger knight.

Galahad only dropped his head in accordance with Tristan's advice and remained silent.  
"I'm back to camp now…" – "I'll be along shortly." He said as Tristan disappeared into the wood like a spirit from an unspoken myth.

_Bloody annoying. That's what it was, _he thought.

After the first small wave of Saxons on British soil and the first burnt villages, Merlin, together with Guinevere – his second in command – had finally come to Hadrian's Wall to seek help with their deadliest enemy: Rome and his representatives.

Merlin must have seen what the future held for his people to dare such a hopeless plea for help. Or maybe he had seen what fate held for Arthur Castus, the British born Roman, destined for some higher purpose only known to the Mighty Powers.

But after a lot of pleading and discussion, the Round Table acknowledged the inhumane brutality of the new enemy and decided a truce with the Woad leader. Since Rome had decided to remove itself from the British Isles, nothing of the ultimate goal of a _'pax romana'_ had remained to be fought for. Neither for Arthur, nor Rome. Rome had abandoned the cumbersome outpost Britannia, in wise anticipation of the Barbarian threat of the Goths and Saxons moving west all throughout Europe, threatening the Empire's very core.

With his inherited allegiance to Rome gone and his beloved mentor Pelagius dead, Arthur had taken the only responsibility that had remained: protecting the people under his care at the garrison, now empty of any Roman troops, at Mons Badonicus and the ones that had decided to put themselves under his care. Just as Rome and the Pope were preparing for the Barbarian threat, Arthur and the Wall seemed to prepare for something, possibly for the same threat, but for different reasons. It was never clear to the people around him what had kept Arthur, the Roman, there. Everybody knew how he had once longed to see Rome again, he was a citizen of Rome by birth and it would have been right for him to return to the eternal city of his father. He stayed for reasons only obvious to him. Maybe it was Arthur, the Briton, staying at Badonicus.

And since _he_ had stayed, his brothers in arms had stayed with him. There was no rational explanation for any of the knights why _they_ had stayed. Maybe it was a deep felt opposition to Roman politics. Maybe they did finally see that this land had grown on them. They all had spent so much blood defending it, that it seemed futile to leave it behind, just because Roman officials had decided that Britain was expendable. It was a choice and it had been the first one offered to them in years. And there was Arthur of course. None of his remaining knights had a heart to leave him behind. He was their leader, their brother and their only guidance in this world. He had become their home.

And then Merlin had come to the Wall.

_In peace, no less._ Galahad thought sourly.

Then he laughed under his breath, for to him it still seemed like madness. Only months before had they fought against the blue painted natives of this land and seemed locked in an eternal struggle of power of these hills. And now a common enemy had aligned them together in one chain of resistance. He wondered at the shocking mood of fortune that had decided for them to help these blue demons who had killed many of his companions and wounded all of them more than once. But he couldn't keep himself to think back at the first burnt village, he had seen destroyed at the hand of the Saxons. At the brutality and the merciless anger towards their victims that made no difference between sexes or age. No, he would fight with the Woads against these Saxon devils who seemed to honour nothing, nor even care for their fallen comrades.

No, as long as Arthur saw fit for him to fight, he would. He had abandoned the dream of his native land long ago. Or rather it had been replaced with his allegiance to Arthur. Merlin's truce had made this quite apparent to all of them.

Why continue to dream for a homeland that only existed in fainting memories and unspoken images?

That dream had vanished like the mist below him under the majesty of the sun that had now risen of the top of the hill behind him. It had been replaced with the only thing and person they knew to be real: Arthur and their love for him as their leader and brother.

So now, whenever a cry for help was heard over the country the knights from the Wall rode out to help the ones that had willingly put themselves under their protection: the Britons.

They had done so three days ago, when word had reached Arthur that a new Saxon force of about 100 men were reported to have reached the eastern coast of the British land, this time to the south. They had ridden out, prepared to take on the Saxon horde from two sides in a perfectly Roman cavalry move that showed the knight's military training.

But none of them had counted on the Saxons' speed.

Too soon had they fallen on the enemy forces. They didn't meet them unprepared of course, but the knights were still taken by surprise. The Sarmatians had clashed with a Saxon vanguard of about 30 men. As usual the battle had been vicious and when the rest of the Saxon force made its appearance Arthur had called them back to regroup. All pulled back more or less unscathed except for Galahad – who had been hit by a Saxon blow aiming for his shoulder but glancing off his armour, had sliced open most of his upper arm instead – and Gawain who had been hit by an arrow the last surviving Saxon archer had managed to let loose before he was cut down by an angrily brandished Excalibur. The arrow had embedded itself into Gawain's upper left thigh, but hadn't caused too much damage.

_And here we are. Regrouping and waiting for them, _Galahad thought. He didn't like one bit of it. None of it. He felt like wild game giving sport to a pack of hunters.

And with that last thought on his mind, he turned his horse and went back to their camp.


	2. Foreboding II

**_Foreboding (cont.)_**

"Something's afoot…" Tristan standing in front of Arthur stated.

The knights were starting to break up camp and were planning their next move. As usual Arthur Castus had thought all night about their course of action. They still had unfinished business with the Saxons and he was adamant not to turn his back on this fight. But something, an untold menace, had crept up behind them and it made him shiver slightly under his heavy battle armour and cloak.

Just as if he still had a commanding right over them, his knights waited for him to guide their actions, decide their fate. _And what gave him the power to still do so?_ He thought absent mindedly, but shunned the dark thought away quickly.

"Arthur?"

"Tristan, I know…" He only hesitated a moment before voicing his now well formed plan.

"You scout ahead. We'll ambush them in the next valley. The Derwent River runs right through it. We'll wait for them to make the crossing and take them from behind. Two groups on each side of their crossing: Gawain comes with me and Lancelot; we'll attack from the west. Galahad, Dagonet and Bors will attack from the east. The steep hill and the forest will keep them from escaping to the south from where you'll cover us with your bow and reinforce the line wherever needed." He looked at the faces of his knights that had gathered around him now. They mirrored his own determination.

"Well, what are we waiting for …?" A pale Gawain asked. He was leaning on his horse, only half hiding the trouble his wounded leg caused him.

Arthur smiled at his defiant tone and nodded in his direction. "Right then. Let's go…!"

Only minutes later, they left the clearing one by one.

* * *

"How are you?" Gawain had ridden up towards Galahad who now turned his face to him. 

"I could ask you the same question, Gawain. You look terrible that's for sure."

"That's not an answer now, is it, boy?"

"For the sake of our friendship, STOP calling me that." Galahad snapped annoyed.

"Goodness, judging by your temper you're not dying yet…" Gawain answered amused, placing a hand on his companions shoulder. The touch made the younger knight flinch and he quickly turned his head to hide the tears of pain that had shot into his eyes.

"I thought as much, brother."

"It'll pass…" Galahad finally managed to say and with that spurred on his eager mount.

"What's with him?" Dagonet suddenly was a Gawain's side.

"Really? He's blaming himself for our retreat and my daftness to be hit by a Saxon arrow." He offered.

A low grunt was the reply. Then: "We're all linked, Gawain. Our bond can only be threatened by wound or illness, and death of course. When one of us is hurt, it affects all of us. With guilt, with anguish and with a sudden fear of loss."

"Dagonet. If you weren't born in the grassy planes of Sarmatia, I'm sure you'd be teaching Philosophy in Rome no less…"

Arthur, who had ridden up and overheard the thought, now smiled at them, resting his hands on the front of his saddle. His remark sent a wide grin over Dagonet's scarred lean face and had Gawain laughing.

"I'll talk to him, Gawain." Arthur stated and took his reins. Gawain nodded in Galahad's direction: "Try not to get your precious head bitten off, we still need that…"

"I will." He answered with a slight wink and rode off.

The moment he reached his youngest knight, Arthur felt his heart gripped by fear. Dagonet was right, was he not? Anything could happen. And even if he prayed to his Almighty Father relentlessly for His protection on every day he woke up to see, he knew that their fate rested in greater hands than his own. He quickly shut out the dubious thoughts and took a deep breath.

"Galahad."

Two dark eyes and a moody face turned to him.

"You'll hate me for asking, but I'll do it anyway. How is your arm?" –

"Yes, I do hate you for asking. And it is quite alright." –

"Please, Galahad. Although I am not your commander by right anymore, I deserve to hear the truth…"

Galahad fixed his already feverish eyes on him, locking Arthur's gaze in defiance.

Finally overcome by the caring feeling those green eyes bore for him, he admitted: "Well, I won't be able to string a bow, that much is sure. But I can still fight with a sword."

"Good. Honesty above all things, don't forget that. And in all honesty, I am telling you now…" and he placed his hand on the knight's left shoulder, just as Gawain had some time before, "… it was not your fault." Galahad needed nothing more. He looked at Arthur's golden green eyes and at last believed him. He flexed his left hand that gradually started to go cold and felt numb.

* * *

"Now, let's kill some Saxons, shall we?" Bors stated with anticipation as they had reached the top of the hill overlooking the next valley, the river Derwent flowing undisturbed below them and the trail that linked the valley to the plane, running beside it. 

It was a small pleasant valley, soon to be filled with the blood and the cries if the dying. Taking the shape of the Greek symbol Y lying on its side, the River entered the valley at the eastern corner until slowly arching away to the south-west. The hill on which the knights now gradually had assembled descended evenly until reaching a flat patch of ground that ended at the river's south side. Perfect for a cavalry charge. The only way to cross the river to the north was a small natural ford, now reinforced, probably by shepherds that passed through here using the green hills as pasture for their livelihood. The path that ran parallel to the river's south and ending at the ford proved that thought.

The river itself was about ten yards wide and probably six feet deep. _Enough to drown some of them,_ Arthur thought, judging the water to be quite cold at this time of year.

"Arthur…" He could feel the tension in his comrade's voice. "… how do we even know they'll come through here?" Lancelot asked, a strained expression in his face, in a hushed tone.

"Because they've been following us until last night." Arthur offered and quickly continued, cutting off any sharp reaction to that, "… and supposing they had to rest just as we did, they will try to reach the Wall. All Saxons sooner or later are trying to reach the Wall, Lancelot. Badonicus lies north-west of us. The fastest way is to cross the river. And the river, dear friend, can only be crossed here." – "And do the Saxons know that?" Lancelot offered sarcastically, with a raised eyebrow.

"They will come." Galahad answered in Arthur's place.

"Oh, young Galahad, talking again, now? You were so pensive; I thought you might fall from your horse at any moment." Lancelot asked with a smirk that only half covered his frown at Galahad's pallor. Galahad offered no answer to Lancelot's teasing, too tired to enter any bickering fight with his cocky friend. He only glared back in response.

"Shh…." Arthur motioned them to silence as Tristan carefully stepped out of the trees beside them, his horse trailing behind him.

"They're following the river, just as you thought. I killed two of their scouts. They'll be upon us in no time."

"Spread out and fall back to the trees." Arthur issued the order, prompting his knights to draw their swords and bows and to back away into the cover of the trees on the hill.

At first Gawain thought that Tristan must have misjudged the Saxons' speed. After all they should haven been be able to at least hear them approach by now… Or maybe have some reaction on the looming threat from the wilderness surrounding them. No bird flew up. No hasty movement from any fleeing beast or animal. _Nothing_.

And then he heard it. A low rumbling. It took Gawain a moment to register that it was neither the sound of the marching Saxon feet, nor their usual war drums – but a chant. In slow waves the sound started to fill the valley before the first enemy had even entered it. Like a dark cloud made out of words and sound, it rose steadily above the ground, moved from the grassy meadow up, and further up to the ears of the proud Sarmatian knights and their leader. Gawain shivered. He was not the only one. None of them had heard anything like it before.

_Wie der Blitz herunter fährt,_ (Like bolt and thunder swiftly strike,)

_Zuckt die Keule und das Schwerdt!_ (We now draw axe and sword!)

_Muth! Muth! Muth!_ (Courage! Courage! Courage!)

_Schwelgt in Feindes Blut,_ (1) (Let's wallow in the enemies blood…)

The billows of the Saxon song unsettled the battle proven horses and even Arthur needed all his soothing touch and voice to calm his horse, keeping him from dashing through the wood and fleeing the reckless noise. Straightening in his saddle again he met Gawain's look of mild horror beside him. That's when he started to pray.

_Oh, Lord that you rule over all things. Grant me the force to face the ultimate sacrifice they are all too willing to give. Grant me the power to foresee the unseen strike that will fell my brother. To take what is offered in honour, love and loyal duty. Grant me my death over theirs. It's all I ask of you, dear Father…_

_

* * *

_

1) cf. The Saxon Battlesong by Heinrich Marschner, _The Templar and the Jewess_, an opera about Sir Walter Scott's _Ivanhoe_, Libretto by Wilhelm August Wohlbrück (Act One, Scene 3), Leipzig, 1829


	3. Foreboding III

**_Foreboding (cont.)_**

"Galahad!" It was Gawain's cry that prompted Arthur to turn his attention from the dying battle around him, only to see the young knight hitting the water to join some already drowned Saxons.

He spurred his horse to the ford, riding down viciously any opposing footmen, and motioned Utr, his horse, to jump from the ford right into the river.

"No!"

Lancelot only managed to cry, for it was too late. Arthur had already jumped in a brave attempt to save his friend Galahad in danger of drowning. He felt Utr under him shudder from the cold water, felt it hitting his legs with a merciless blow, but still urged his horse on and the proud steed eventually managed to find the balance to swim into the direction his master tried to stir him. Arthur grabbed Galahad's tunic and pulled him in, while in the same motion turning his horse back to the ford where Lancelot and Tristan already waited.

Tristan dragged a motionless Galahad up the ford and onto the grass of the river bank, as Lancelot offered Arthur his arm, pulling him off the horse and onto the bank.

"Here!" Lancelot handed Tristan his own cape to cover the still unresponsive knight.

All around them the battle had died down. The Saxons were defeated. A whole pack of them, now littering the foot of the hill. Bors and Dagonet went through the remains of the once impressive force, making sure, none survived. That same force that had compelled them to retreat and now had received their wages for it.

Gawain dismounted as quickly as possible and limped to the spot where his friend lay, inert, unresponsive and even whiter as before.

Whispering his name, he gently wrapped him in his arms, offering his own warmth to the cold body.

"We need to get him back to the wall. Now." Arthur, suddenly kneeling beside them, stated, panting and dripping.

Laughing.

Unbelieving he turned around at the sound of someone laughing, daggers in his eyes.

Picking up Excalibur, rage in his heart, he stepped up to the still laughing Saxon using up his last breath displaying this act of defiance.

"What are you laughing at?" He asked, pointing the blade at the throat of the impertinent former Saxon leader. "You'll…" he coughed. One of Tristan's arrows had clearly pierced his lung, his breathing was shallow. "… never make it…" Another cough.

Arthur willed himself not to kill this fiend right away.

"What on ea…?" Lancelot now stood beside Arthur, who barked: "Speak up!"

"We will keep coming… my father Aelric will… you will all die, Roman." He tried to laugh in defiance again, but only managed another hoarse cough before Arthur eased his pain, the Saxon's words reverberating in his mind.

* * *

"How is he?" Arthur asked with heavy anticipation barely masked in his voice. 

Gawain kept shaking his head, slowly rocking Galahad in a futile attempt to warm his cherished companion.

"Well, if the infection isn't going to kill him, the effects of the cold water surely will." Tristan stated too calmly.

They all looked at him in shock and although Gawain, a spark in his eyes, wanted to offer some challenge to the scout's assessment, he saw the truth of it on Galahad's white figure. They all did.

"We need to get back to the garrison. The quickest way is to cross the river and to pass over the next hill. Badonicus is half a day's ride." Lancelot stated glancing at the trail climbing the steep hill to the north. "If we ride hard." He turned his eyes back on his fallen friend and as if he had fallen into the River as well, a swift wave of icy cold started gripping his heart.

Arthur must have felt the same wave for he suddenly shivered under his breath.

"No." Arthur locked with Gawain's pleading eyes. "We should try to warm him first. We'll rest here. Take camp. Light a fire…" But the other knights had already turned to dismount their horses and start a fire and camp, while Lancelot was still lost in thought over the best way to get to their homes and Arthur was about to voice his idea.

Again, Arthur wondered briefly at the bond he shared with his knights. A bond that in the most difficult situations gave them the ability to almost read each other's thoughts, and it was in those moments that he came very close to believing that such an ability really existed.

* * *

Sitting beside the fire, Dagonet was observing Gawain who still held Galahad in his arms, both were now covered in their horse blankets. 

_Almost peaceful_, he thought. _This could almost be peaceful. _And pushing away the dread for his comrade's well-being aside only for a moment, he contemplated the pattern of the light that shone upon his friends covering them in a warm, golden hue.

_He almost looks sleeping now_, he thought. Almost. And there it was again. The dread. The fear of losing one of their own to sickness and battle.

He took a deep breath and drank from the wine Bors had warmed for them by the fire. How many friends had they already lost for a duty they had never chosen for them? This was different somehow. Fighting was what they did best after all, he thought grimly. And if anyone had some sense left in them, it was obvious why they fought the Saxons.

_It was our choice, was it not?_ A choice that, if anyone had asked him some years ago, he – and possibly none of the others – would have made the way he had. But like so many things, it had only become clear when the situation had presented itself. And when it did, no one had really contemplated turning away from either their leader or their loyalty.

_Arthur_. How so much unconditional integrity had ever come to be realised in a Roman, was a mystery to Dagonet who had ever only known Romans to be either stuffed with their self-confidence or over-zealous in blessing everyone with their way of life, using what- and whoever they could to serve their goals. _  
He's different_. Always contemplating the misery and turmoil around him, feeling it his calling to ease what suffering he could, strengthening whatever weakness he encountered and keeping nothing for himself. _Selfless._ That's how he had always been. _Maybe it's because he's a Christian_. He half suppressed a laugh, for Dagonet knew the Christians just as overzealous in their ways as the Romans were.

"What?" Bors, seated beside him at the fire, who had heard his laugh now asked. "Nothing. Odd thoughts 's all."  
"Hm, thought as much, coming from you." He started grinning widely.  
"How is your head?" Dagonet asked mirroring his fellow knight's mirth with a smirk on his face.

"Since when have you taken up falling from your horse as a habit by the way? … And don't you blame the horse, I am sure it wasn't Alelme's fault." Lancelot – who had just joined them – added, kneeling beside the fire, pouring himself some wine that was warming beside it.

"I didn't fall, I was dragged and hit my head, you daft bastard." Bors grunted, still fuming with what had happened the day before. "But you're right: my horse's only fault was that he didn't bite the bloody Saxon who attacked me." And with that he laughed again, displaying his love for his battle mount resting behind them peacefully. – "Besides, where's Tristan off to?" he now asked, changing the subject. – "He's not trusting this peaceful site, fellows. Said something about 'seems not right' and 'taking a stroll', then took off to the hill." Lancelot answered mimicking Tristan's typically stern expression, then looking up at the sky.  
"It does seem rather quiet now. It's only three hours past midday and the light is already failing. I don't suppose we'll be riding back tonight." He stood up drawing his cloak a bit closer around him, took his cup of wine and stood to look at his commander in the distance, hunkered down on the river bank and lost in thoughts.

"Arthur." The calling of his name had snapped him right of his reverie. Lancelot was hovering over him, offering him the steaming liquor he had just poured, eyeing him with a distinct frown that crowned his dark, glinting eyes. The commander accepted the hot wine which immediately started to warm his hands.

"It's getting colder. The first snow will be upon us soon." He stated while taking a deep breath from the sweet smell that lay in the vapour covering the earthly goblet in his hands.

Lancelot raised an eyebrow, a clear sign of what he was about to say: "Although I usually _love_ to complain about the weather on this rainy, muddy and, yes, bloody cold island… you won't distract me into it this time." And with that he lowered himself and looked into his best friend's eyes. "I know what you are thinking." It was more an observation, than a statement from the dark haired knight.

Arthur resented the scrutiny and moved his gaze back to the hill to the north and their path ahead wounding it's way up it, remaining silent.

Already the light was going down slowly and although the sun had been conquered by a grey bank of clouds earlier that day, it could now be seen to the west. A light orb with no real power, behind grey wisps, turning the cloudy sky around it into a milky mist.

"Tell me then, what I'm thinking…" Arthur finally said into the growing silence between them, half-hoping that his friend had the force to voice his fears, a force that failed him.

"Well, you were contemplating your responsibility for a change. Throw in quite an amount of sorrow over our young hero over there…" he was motioning towards the fire and their comrades guarding Galahad in his growing fever, "…and add a hint of dread at us getting home in time and your ever growing fear for the ones you leave behind, every time you ride out, and I think that should cover it nicely."

Arthur remained silent. There was nothing else to say.

"Arthur. Look at me." Turning his eyes towards his friend reluctantly, he was surprised not to see a scornful expression in Lancelot's eyes, only a strong determination on his face.

"Listen to me." His voice mirrored his expression. "You should stop worrying about everything all the time. The young rascal will be just fine, simply because he his stronger than any of us dares to give him credit for. Us turning back _was_ the right choice to make and has nothing to do with him lying over there. Choosing his own ground for a fight is always a good decision. You are not responsible for this." Lancelot placed his hand on his friends shoulder emphasising his meaning. "And neither for all the Britons under your care, for that matter. What will happen, _will_ happen, whether you spend time thinking it over or not. Isn't that what you Christians excel at? Accept what is coming for you and hope to live?"

Arthur couldn't keep himself from smiling and shaking his head at the remark. "Who would have thought you'd start sounding like Pelagius one day?" he replied with a smile. – "No. I am neither your mentor, your father, and most certainly not your fellow Christian. Living in this…" he hesitated, "hell…" expression still stern on his face, "… doing what I have been doing …, all this … killing, denies me the comforts of a faith in any higher meaning or purpose." He lifted a hand to stop Arthur from interrupting him, "But living around you and your ways has proved me enough that such a faith eases your burdened soul and I saw long ago that it is your guidance in this forsaken place. I am a pagan; I don't have the same luck. So please, follow your hope and stop worrying too much." – "And what is your guidance then, Lancelot? You could easily take up Christian faith and…" – "I only believe in what I can see, remember? No, I could never take up your faith. And as for my guidance, you silly fool that you worry so much but fail to see what is in front of you: it's you. It always has been. For all of us. And don't you dare dismiss it. Your belief covers us all. It's as simple as that." – Just as Arthur was ready to reply anything to the words Lancelot had just earnestly offered him, a stir by the fire caught his attention.

"At last…" And with that he got up and strode towards the blazing fire, leaving Lancelot behind, smiling in his usual half-mocking, half-pensive way. _I don't need an answer anyway, brother. _

* * *

Reaching the top of the hill, sparsely covered by trees, north of their camp where everybody else was gathered around their youngest companion, Tristan took a deep breath off of the now ever cooler air as if trying to read what lay before them. A distinct breeze from the north had settled in and was announcing the change in season and weather. _Nothing._

The thought didn't linger in his mind, as a sharp cry from above caught his attention, ringing sweet in his ear. He looked into the grey afternoon sky above him, where he expected to see his beloved hawk to draw her circles in the sky, calling him, longing for him. No sooner than the cry had taken to reach his ear, did she land on his now outstretched hand. "And where have you been all day?" he asked softly caressing her neck while the hawk was looking at him intently, as if she was trying to answer the man's question. "Blanche…" he called her by her sweet name which was quickly joined by a small gasp of surprise as he was patting her neck downwards to her left wing and only then noticed the dry speckles of blood on her feathers and the wound buried beneath them. The hawk was still fixing his gaze, not minding his touch on her obviously sore wing where something had grazed her. The scratch was not too deep and tough the thought of a fight with another hawk defending his territory crossed his mind, Tristan dismissed it. This was a scratch… not a peck from an avian beak. _From an arrow_. The answer to his unvoiced question lingered between him and the bird who still hadn't turned down his gaze from the dark eyes of his master that still were set upon her inquisitively and narrowed, as the first grumble of a distant thunder coming from the north could be heard resonating over the silent valley.

* * *

The first thing that entered his shady mind was a distant thought of cold feet. His feet were cold. _Now there's an unusual thought_. Then a tickle on his forehead made him frown. _Where am I?_ And as if the question had set off an avalanche, it all came rushing back at him. Suddenly he felt the lumbering pain in his arm, the dampness of the mantle that covered him and the burning heat in his throat that made him swallow and sent him into a heavy coughing fit, leaving him fighting for air. 

Half way through the coughing he registered that he wasn't lying on the ground evenly but that his upper body rested on someone's legs, keeping him off the cold and soggy earth. That same someone was holding him tightly now, trying to steady him and with a soft hand brushed away the drops of sweat running down his brow. Whoever it was, he pressed his cool cheek against his own smouldering forehead now, whispering words of comfort he could not hear and failed to understand. Panicking for air at present, he grabbed the collar of who tried to help him and aimed all his focus at suppressing the urge to breathe. After what seemed like an eternity, the irritation in his throat finally died down, leaving him drained and a dull pain settled in behind his eyes and throbbed in his temples with every heavy heartbeat.

"By the gods, Galahad! Breathe, will ye?"

He willed himself to take in the fresh air gradually through his nose, sending it deep into his blazing lungs and looked up, managing a quick smile at the one who had so harshly urged him, before he closed his eyes again. "I should have known…" he hoarsely managed to state. – "Stop talking… Here." Gawain softly placed a water skin at his lips and supported his head while his sore throat refused to take the water at first, but then numbed by the cold liquid gave up and let him accept it. "Easy. Small gulps…" – Swallowing heavily he put up a hand and said: "It's not as if…" looking up now, "… I had forgotten the basic functions of my body, you know…"

Gawain managed to smile at the remark while Bors, across the fire, let out a heartfelt laugh that eased off the tension around them.

"Now, what did I say… you rascal." Lancelot knelt down beside him and grabbing his neck with one hand while holding some hot wine for him in the other. "Here. This will do you good." he said, while helping him to take the soothing warm brew, all the while mustering Galahad's complexion. He lastly looked him in the eye and simply stated: "You had us really worried this time, son." – "How are you feeling, Galahad?" Arthur had replaced Lancelot at his side, same stern mustering expression in his eyes as the former had had. – "Tired…" was all he could muster to say. He simply didn't know to describe how he felt yet, but the worry in Arthur's look hadn't gone unnoticed. – "Drained and in dire need of sleep. So quit hovering around him like that, you all and let's give him some rest…" Gawain answered now for his friend, "…please." As if to emphasize his request he locked eyes with their leader, asking him to stay for the night, urging him for these hours of calm for his beloved friend before a harsh ride home, arguing that the Saxon threat had been dealt with for today and that the only thing in need of their attention right now, was the health of one of their own. But Arthur would not have been Arthur, had he not already seen the firm grip the fever had claimed on his knight, the sunken eyes or the low rattle in his lungs that bore witness of his venture into the autumn water of the Derwent. Running his hand through Galahad's brown matted hair, he only whispered: "Rest…" shocked for a second by the heat that he felt on his hand emanating from his young knight's body, before nodding to Gawain and getting up. He turned his head up to the north where he expected Tristan to roam the trees, maybe searching for an answer to his own faceless doubt.

* * *

The evening and most of the night had gone by swiftly. Galahad had tried to stay awake, but after another cup of warm wine to strengthen his labouring body and after Lancelot had tended to his arm once more, had drifted to sleep again. The other knights had scattered themselves in a secure distance of eventual sparks from the fire and slept while a deceiving calm had gained their camp on the riverbank. 

Lancelot sat an unasked guard over his companions, musing over past events, future trials and the bond that had governed his fate and life for so many years now. He had allied himself to these men out of pure necessity to stay in this world, not to be cut down by a blurry blue enemy and with them, in them had found the one thing he had never expected to have again: a home. Glancing at Arthur, sleeping on the other side of the warming fire, he smiled at fortune's ways that in all the misery of leaving his land, his family, his father and his own people, had sent him the blessing of this unconditional love and friendship impersonated in this Roman. _No, he's becoming a Briton more and more._ And as he saw his commander, friend and brother twitch in his sleep, below the layers of a sweet slumber that was broken by some anonymous unease or dream, he thought back at the dangers he had seen him go through and the nights they had stood in each others rooms to watch over a/ their companion's troubled sleep. _More than fifteen years_._ How many battles? How many scars to testify? How many moments of anguish, of fear of loss? How many deaths along my way?_

And his mind slipped quietly to Galahad, now deeply lost in his stupor, fighting off the fever demons.

He had always loved the youngest among them as a son, not like a younger brother, although Lancelot would be troubled to admit it to anyone else. As a son, not so much because of their age, since they were mere years apart, but because of his rashness – that reminded Lancelot so much of his own deficiencies – his untamed heart and his unchecked pride. He saw so much of himself mirrored in the young knight. And he suddenly remembered himself standing in the middle of an ocean. An ocean of grass, the sky wide above him. No boundaries to keep either eye or soul in check. He saw her standing beside him again, looking down at him. She had taken his hand, sweet Elaine. _I will watch over him_, he remembered saying and turning to look at her. _I know_, she whispered in his ear, _I know_.

Back in Britain's cold grip, he returned to every instant that he had kept this promise given to Galahad's mother, mother of his clan who with her unshed tears had blessed Lancelot's strength. _One day, I will fail that promise, Elaine. And I won't have the time to ask for your forgiveness then. No time to remember… no time to linger in your memory… no time…, _he thought, as the fire gingerly started to die down and the stars above him ever moving, received his memories, took them up to the mother they were destined for and all the while lending their shiny excellence to the darkened valley below them.

* * *

_In eadem hora apparuerunt digiti (In the same hour fingers)_

_quasi manus hominis scribentis… (Daniel 5:5)(like from a man's hand wrote…)_

_mane... mane… thecel… (Daniel 5:25)(weighed… weighed… and found too light)_

Like a whirlwind the words spiralled into Arthur's dream when suddenly he heard a familiar voice that apparently had been talking to him for some time now.

_Behold God's warning in King Daniel's words, Arthur. The writing on the wall on the night of Belsazar's feast. Do you know what it means? _

He remembered himself nodding when he had been taught this lesson years before that now was nothing more than a memory, haunting him in his sleep. He saw Pelagius smile at him again, seeing right through the nodding that Arthur had not seized the deeper meaning of the Psalmist's words.

_Interpretatio sermonis **mane** numeravit Deus regnum tuum et conplevit illud, **thecel** adpensum est in statera et inventus es minus habens… (And it means: God has weighed and fulfilled your kingdom, just as you have been weighed and found wanting.) _

They had been walking through the meadows behind the last houses of Badonicus, Pelagius fulfilling his calling as his teacher and Arthur eagerly listening to the wise man's words.

_I know Pelagius, Belsazar died that same night, his kingdom was given to his enemies and divided. Nothing was left of the former glory or wealth, only desolation. – Arthur… _the images of the memory was fading, sinking into nothingness again, only the voice remained.

_Arthur, there will come a time when **we** are weighed… Our task is to even the balance and not to be found wanting. Use the gifts given to you by our Saviour, greet him at your side and you will never be found wanting. _

He felt himself slip from the grasp of sleep, leaving the voice behind him, slowly emerging into the waking world again. _Mane… Mane... thecel..._ once again whispered... and he could have sworn that it was someone whispering them into his ear, instead of just a memory of a distant past. _Behold the Signs… the signs, Arthur…_ - "Pelagius...?" He murmured his mentor's name now "… what signs?"

His eyes snapped open and all he could see was a star knitted sky above him, set up in such beauty, portraying saintly symmetry and divine order in their twinkling airiness and simplicity that he felt tears entering his eyes at their sight.


	4. Foreboding IV

OK, the last chapter of the first part. Don't worry, it has only just started. I'm sorry for the overlap at the beginning and the tackiness at the end. What can I say... I couldn't resist. :-D  
Thank you so much for your reactions and encouragement. (Ivory: Elaine… we'll see how I will manage to bring myth and my ideas together. Thanks for the thumbs up!)

I need to add a small note to this: historically speaking the Pict/Woads and the Britons were nowhere near to being the 'same people' or even friendly linked for that matter – but I have a habit of complicating things and I opted for the simpler interpretation of the film in order to fight said habit. That's why you'll have 'blue demons' fighting against Julius Caesar in Kent. (cringes) I apologize in advance for any heavy frowning, revolted panting and terrible cursing you might experience with this 'error', but remember, it's all in favour of the story. Thank you so much for reading.  
And please review: I had a lot of trouble shaping Guinevere and her memories in this chapter, I felt like missing something there. Any reaction or help would be welcome.

* * *

**_Foreboding (cont.)_**

"There's a thunderstorm heading this way." Tristan simply stated before he squatted down beside Lancelot, who startled at the scout's sudden appearance, breathed: "Dear Gods… you really are a sneaky fellow, aren't you?" – "You were so lost in thoughts; you wouldn't have heard a boar approaching at full run." Tristan offered as he went through his saddlebag, looking for something. – "A Thunderstorm, eh? Nice… just about what I needed now, more mud…, more cold… more dampness." – "It surely won't make the task of getting Galahad home any easier." Tristan observed. He had evidently found what he had been searching in his bag and turned around, where – to Lancelot's amazement – his hawk stood immobile, like a statue, in the grass, observing the trees behind him. Tristan held out his hand, flat to the ground, stopping just inches short of the bird's feet. She turned her yellow look down at the hand before softly stepping onto it, grabbing hold of the now gloved fingers of her master, stretching out a wing to steady herself as he bore her up.

"What's wrong with her?" Lancelot asked as Tristan set the hawk down on his knee and started to tend to her wound. There was not so much worry reflecting in these words, but renewed wonder at the obvious tenderness flowing between these two beings. A tenderness that contrasted sharply with Tristan's usually almost harsh, monosyllabic posture that could even be seen reflected in his fighting habits. – "Someone tried to shoot her down." He simply said. – "What? But who shoots hawks for sport?" – "No Celt: Briton or Woad that's for sure…"

* * *

She draw her gaze to the dark skies above her, that lay covered in clouds. Taking in the fresher breeze from the north she could hear a thunder sounding far off in the distance. As she felt the first heavy drops hit her, she wondered how long it would take the storm to reach her. And when it did, would it not match her own inner storm, raging on an on, tiring her, tearing at her without pity or remorse? She wanted to sigh, but could either not seem to find the force for such a display or feared it might betray her feelings to the outside world. An outside world that needed her strength and skill for battle, not her heart, torn and tattered by doubt and longing. 

She couldn't help her thoughts going out to him. Closing her eyes to the wet beauty of the invisible green landscape surrounding her, she imagined him asleep, his head resting on his saddle, his face illuminated by a fire nearby.

_Arthur._ _How would he react to these tidings? What would his heart feel when he heard the news she had just been told?_ She asked, reminding herself painfully how limited her knowledge of his inner thoughts and considerations was. _He will leave me. To fight his own fight. In a place where his sweet face will be invisible to my thoughts._  
And Guinevere – great warrior of her people, captain and leader of her clan – felt her soul cry out at the thought and drawing her cloak closer around her, she sighed heavily. _If only he knew. If only he knew for my feelings. My love. _But she shook her head, knowing that no love was capable of keeping any warrior from his fated fight. _  
Not in my world anyway._

She felt herself going back in time, travelling on memory's swift wings to the one morning that would change her universe.

Again she was standing in a thick copse untouched by the snow that covered the land stretching out before her. Saw the riding company appearing out of nowhere again, heard herself giving the signal to attack once more. Again she felt the cold grip of the snow on her legs as she fell. And just as she had back then, she felt herself drop to her knees, mirroring the image in her mind. The steel-topped arrow had hit her pelvis, glancing off her right hip bone only to exit - with it's deathly tip stained red – inches from her backbone.

Dropping from the increasing rain back in the present, she pressed her wet hand on the scar that was burning now as if she had sustained the wound yet again. She could see her blood marking the once white beauty of the snow, mingling with the crimson fluid her people were shedding beside her. Again, she felt someone charging right at her, blade ringing in the middle of the whooshing movement. Again, she lifted her head instinctively, loosing her look instantly in the flashing green eyes of her foe. Again, as if a plea for mercy had called him, the black blade was stayed mere instants from her death. Again, she left out what she thought to be her last breath, still lost in the bitter splendour of these eyes and closed her own in grim resolve.

The deadly blow had never come.

Turning her face towards the falling rain, she thought of those eyes once more, the strain of battle visible on the face they belonged to and then, for the hundredth time, wondered at the reason that had kept mighty Excalibur from claiming her.  
Deep down in her soul, she knew that from that moment onwards she had lost every force over her own heart. The choice had been made without her consent. As simply as the white petals of a cherry blossom yield to a spring breeze.  
She had fought against it of course, fought against the irony, the indignation and ridicule of it all. And him. Oh, how she had fought him since then. Battle scheme after ambush, fight after fight, always throwing her ever growing love for him into the clash of swords and shields as her target. _I would have killed him if I only had gotten the chance, _she thought sadly.  
The Gods had decided otherwise.  
And as Merlin had taken her to the Wall against her own will, she had met him without bow, arrow or sword between them. She recalled the slight gasp from immediate recognition as he set his splendid eyes on her, saw him drop his head in reverence at her position once more, her heart screaming in her mind.

_Arthur, _she thought, _my love has not stopped the fight against you that was my calling. And I know it will not keep you from your own battles. I wish I had the power to keep you at my side facing any future pain and sorrow. I wish you knew…_

"Guinevere." Merlin had finally found his captain and was urging her to return to him by placing a strong hand on her arm. "We need to move quickly now. We won't get a better chance by waiting…" The unfinished phrase lingered a moment between them and both of them knew the words he hadn't spoken. She turned to face him, only nodding to acknowledge the truthfulness of his statement. Just as the rain intensified it's downfall, a determined expression settled in Guinevere's demeanour, steely and unforgiving. She was ready.

* * *

"Damn this wretched island, this miserable weather and this cursed mud!" Lancelot's outburst made Galahad laugh. "Yeah, Yeah, laugh… now that you've regained your breath. Oh, I hate this soggy place, everything is conspiring against me: the earth, the sky and all you can muster is a laugh?" Lancelot continued to curse as he wiped his dirty hands on his breeches and straightened up to look at his companions passing him by in the downpour, all but figures in the shady light. He was wet to his skin, chilled to his bones and now dirty from the morass he had just rid his horse's hooves of to keep it from slipping on the slithery road. – "Cheer up! Lancelot!" Galahad said, grinning widely. – "And why, by the Gods, should I?" – "We're home soon and I'm sitting on my own horse. Upright I might add… Things could be worse." – "Feeling better, eh?" The miserable knight asked as he started to remount his once noble black steed, now mostly covered in muck. "Yeah, well, you don't look it, Galahad. More like a ghost if you ask me." – "That's just the rain playing tricks on you. Losing your sight, old man?" – "Wait, 'till I hit you with my fist and we'll see whose sight is faulty…" Lancelot grumbled in Galahad's direction. 

They had left the valley a few hours before, just previous to the rain settling in for the day. To his own surprise Galahad had woken with a clear mind and although a cough rocked him in his saddle from time to time, it seemed that he had broken the fever and the effects of his misfortune of the day before. Sure, he still felt a certain weakness in his arms and legs that made him shiver occasionally, but his sight wasn't clouded anymore and he had decided to be fit for the ride back to the Wall on his own.

"Could anyone tell me how long we are from the Wall, for I'll be damned if I know _where_ we are in this flood." Gawain asked pulling the soaked hood of his riding coat deeper in his face. – "I'd say anywhere near two hours from the Wall. But I'm not sure. Let's wait for Tristan or Dagonet to return." Arthur answered Gawain's uncomfortable question.  
The dread from the night before had never really left him this morning. He was shifting uneasy and an odd feeling that he was missing something came back to assail him. The sensation was similar to the one crawling up, when forgetting something important and being conscientious about it. It was this same feeling that had him send two of his knights to check their surroundings as they rode further up north.

After what seemed like an eternity, the rain started to subside into a faint drizzle and Lancelot – who had once again taken up point – just wanted to send out a thankful prayer to the water gods, as he was startled to acute attention by the appearance of a hazy figure, barely visible through the mist of the water before him. He reached his right hand to his back, gripping the hilt of his Spanish sword while taking up Ban's reins, eyes still focused ahead on the road. For a long, tensed moment he didn't move. Neither did the form before him.  
"Lancelot?? What…???" Gawain had drawn his bow.

"Stand down, you boneheads… it's Tristan!" Bors bellowed behind them. Lancelot closed his eyes, let the tension flow from his body and simply thought: _Not again._

"Tristan?" Arthur now riding up to his scout, called his name. "What is it?"

"Listen." Came the answer, just as taciturn as ever.

At first all Arthur could hear was the steady trickle of water, sliding off the foliage and plants around him, together with a wide sweeping noise from the falling rain. But behind the elemental noise pressing his ears, he could guess a distant reeling sound that reminded him somewhat of a lamenting snarl. A withdrawn wailing or ascending lament, a keening not unlike the removed howls of a lonely wolf. Oh, but so grievous now, that Arthur could do nothing but frown at the ringing of recognition in his thoughts.

"Bagpipes!" he gasped. – "What?" someone snapped sharply behind him, fully knowing what this could mean. Arthur noted the stiffness mounting in his knights as – still listening – he turned and stated: "Woad pipes. Can't you hear them?"

Rooted in ancient tradition the Celtic tribes and Clans of the British Isles not only shared the skill for battle, but also their tactics. A lot of their tactics rested in speed and terror. The first step at sowing this terror among the opposing soldiers was the ululation of their war pipes. Every clan had their war tune that welded together the wild fighters of Europe's north when charging any force injudicious enough to challenge them on their own ground and poured dread and trepidation into the hearts of their foes. Had not the great Caesar himself complained on the effect the eerie moaning had on his Legionnaires? Troops that had never failed him before, not against the Helvetians, the mighty Arvernians or the Haedui, only to tremble on the shores of Cantium facing those blue demons the underworld had set on their path.

Arthur had felt the terror often enough himself, for not long ago the wailing was directed at him giving voice to a glorious, everlasting challenge against Rome.  
But Artorius Castus was no longer a threat to the woads. The Saxons had replaced him in this role.

"These are Merlin's pipes! North of us…" Dagonet, who had joined them, stated grimly now. _More Saxon intruders. More death. More blood, _the pipes chanted between the rain, the mud and Arthur's galloping thoughts. Without a word he turned towards the sound and with a simple "yah!" spurred Utr to carry him into battle.

* * *

When they had finally reached the crest of the hill towering above the battlefield, Lancelot could at last make out where they were. Below them, barely visible in the mud and struggle around it, nested in the eastern estuary of the River Tyne, lay the small village of Corstopitum – Corbridge for the locals – guarding the crossing of the river and its connection to the sea in the west. Obviously, while Arthur and his knights were called away to the south, a whole Saxon army had landed between Hadrian's wall and the mouth of the Tyne, moving swiftly towards Corbridge to seize power over the river and a foothold for supplies coming in from the sea, forcing an invasion. They had not counted on the fierce resistance by the woads however, nor on Merlin's determined defence of the precious bridgehead that the Saxons were hoping to seize. 

Through the ever constant drizzle Arthur could see that the wise pict leader had stationed his archers on the southern bank of the river, well out of range from an enemy charge on foot and he noted the heavy blow the Barbarian left flank was suffering from the steady downpour of wheezing arrows.

He looked closely at the battle formation of the Saxon force while planning his own attack to lend a hand. Taking in the number of the fallen and the ones clashing with the main Woad defence force to the east, he judged that at least 500 determined Saxons had landed, unchecked and unchallenged, while he was off, leaving the Britons to defend themselves without Excalibur's support. Not giving into the guilt oozing from this thought, but into the anger that lay behind it, he moved his eyes to the east. There the invaders had met a stiff frontline of blue painted warriors. _Led by Guinevere most likely, _Arthur thought and quickly corrected his former assessment of an unchallenged Saxon advance, for he could see in the formation of ranks and the tactics of the native troops that this encounter had been well prepared.

"Knights!" Arthur called them to attention, turning his gaze away from the carnage raging below him.  
"We're splitting up. Galahad you join Merlin's archers to command their counter attack on the Saxon rear, should they decide to set over the river or manage to advance any more to the west." The young knight scowled at the order, feeling that his commander was trying to spare him from damage while riding into the heart of danger himself only too readily. But a quick touch to his left arm and the cold sweat on his face convinced him of the wisdom of the order issued to him. He was far from ready to join a close combat fight. – "We can cross the river at the bridge; Merlin seems to have anticipated our arrival." Dagonet said, while counting about 10 blue warriors carrying bows to defy anyone venturing onto the trestle that linked the northern bank with the south, readied his axe for a full charge into the thick of battle.

"May God go with you all…" Arthur managed to murmur before Lancelot – twin swords already drawn and flipping – shouted his blood lusting battle cry, prompting his mount to charge down the hill. He never looked back; neither did any of the other knights that had joined him immediately in a raving descent of hooves and fury.

If they had, they would have seen Arthur draw Excalibur even as he steeled himself and broke into a defiant cry himself. It was in that moment that Merlin heard the rumble of galloping horses behind him, that had been covered by the moaning snarl of the bagpipes around him and the clash of weapons in front of him until then.

He turned to greet his long expected allies and his eyes met Arthur's up on the hill, narrowed now by his cry of force, Excalibur in hand, his horse brandishing his hooves high into the air in anticipation.

A silent salute passed between the two men, before Merlin called out to his archers to make way and save themselves from the fast approaching horses that came charging downhill at a tight speed.

Standing in the light rain, in the middle of his pipers and archers joined by Galahad now, Merlin saw the group of knights challenge the enemy. A comfortable satisfaction passed over him: his choice of alliance had been blessed, for truly no one could resist such might, such primeval infuriation. He felt the warrior goddess' blessing emanating from their every move and prayed her once more to follow them into the fray, to guide their actions and to fuel their passion with pure divine fire.


	5. Ash, Ruin and Demise I

Ok, gents (read: my beloved three readers). Let's bring on the nasty villain, shall we? I had some doubt about the pacing of this battle, and frankly I hate to write them, since I prefer duel fighting myself (that's why I'm a fencer and not a rugby player… hi, Turicum :-D I know you're reading this, Dear). I hope I was able to shape it into something resembling a fight anyhow.

HGandRHforever: Thank you very much for your kind words. A Galahad fan, no less. Poor you…

To all other reviewers: Thanks for taking the time to give me a feedback, I really appreciate it.

* * *

_**II. Ash, Ruin and Demise**_

The green grass of the meadow near Tyne River lay drenched wet with rain and blood.

And as if the grass wanted to turn itself away from the terror of the raging battle, not withstanding the constant spill, nor the trot of angry feet fighting to live, one blade after another bowed itself back to the earth they were rooted in.

An ocean, once of thick green, now soiled in angry red – trampled and crushed by vain anger and excitement.

Tristan's hawk was circling above the wild clash, drawing the circumference of the burning fight below her, ever watchful not to loose focus on her master. She could see him exchanging his short bow with the long, curved blade. As he lowered himself from his horse to meet two opposing Saxons, he drew the sword from its leather scabbard in a perfect arc that upon completion had sliced a throat and a chest, leaving them men they belonged to dying in its fairway.

It was said that Tristan was a too silent companion. Not unlike a lonely wolf that out of curiosity had come down from the hills, eventually granting his presence to the ones around him, not because he needed any company for himself, but because it just suited him to stay.

Maybe it was this inner silence that made him such a perfect scout, unrivalled in the art of stealth. He never said a word more than needed and hated to make more noise than necessary. The same subjacent attitude was reflected in his fighting. His mastery of the sword an image of his quiet soul. With his perfect timing, he never seemed to make any movements more than needed, being driven by a foreseeing instinct. There were no taunting flips of the blade, no observant circling the enemy to determine his weakness, no engagement in swordplay to be seen from the stern knight. And thus he barely ever needed to parry an enemy blade, for his movements where so fluent, fast and deadly, that most of his victims did not even have the time to challenge sword that threatened them. Every single one of his thrusts was aimed to kill. Always.

Still the hawk circled above Tristan as if she was afraid to leave him out of her sight. A change of wind however, made her adjust the height of her flight and – with two strong beats of her wings – she climbed higher. Seeing no living fiend directly around him, Tristan allowed himself to glance upwards at her. He had noticed the wind shifting to the east and suddenly he smelled the tang of burning wood mingled into the moisture of the air. As he looked to the east he could see several farmhouses smouldering in the ever so faint trickle of water from the sky. He had no time to think about the farmers that were most likely trapped in the buildings the Saxons had laid fire to, but he spoke a quick blessing to whoever was listening to ease their suffering, then turned and disposed of another pack of Saxons charging him, as if his thoughts never had left the battle.

Guinevere was still standing on the gentle slope, her reinforcements gathered behind her. She had seen the Sarmatian ride over the bridge into the thick of the battle where their sudden appearance had caused great terror among the Saxons. The wild speed and determined force of their assault was causing the attackers to flee into a secure distance of this newly arrived threat and the formerly pressed line of the woads was thus steadied.  
But Guinevere could see that the Saxon warlord – seated on an light fawn coloured stallion, overlooking the battle from a retreated position beside an old ash tree – was furiously bellowing orders in an unknown language, presumably inciting them to meet their deaths proudly facing the enemy rather than turning their back on the ghostly horsemen. Most of the Saxons thus called upon turned around to throw themselves back at the knights on their massive battle horses only waiting to meet them.  
She was marvelling once more at the skill and precision of Arthur and his knights. Every one of these battle trained warriors looked perfectly balanced on their mounts. Each pair an ideal match. Horse and rider in flawless collaboration appeared as one being, sharing the awareness of the next movement without any apparent communication.  
_How many hours had it taken them to gain such grim perfection?_, she wondered. _How many dead, how much blood of my own warriors? _She pushed the thought away quickly, focusing back on the Saxon leader and with a triumphant smile choose him as her ultimate target.

Surrounded by what seemed at least five Saxons trying to pull him from his horse, Lancelot launched himself from his saddle at the nearest enemy, sword in hand. One of his assailers fell with a pierced lung before the knight landed on the ground, dragging two others with him in the process. Pulling the dagger from his right boot, he swiftly slit the throats of the men he had lunged at and got up, only to be challenged by the remaining two. He pushed the dagger into his belt to free a hand and leisurely pulled his second sword sheathed on his back, a wide grin now showing on his face. His eyes were sparking to tease his adversaries, and two tauntingly flipped blades emphasized the provocation. Both unfortunate Saxons chose to run at him together, maybe hoping to catch the knight off guard from two sides. Evidently they had counted neither on Lancelot's anticipation of such a move nor on his speed. Almost casually, the knight decided to prefer the left side this time and ran at the Saxon to his left, in order to limit the distance more rapidly. He quickly cut off an enemy arm with his left, dropped on his right knee and thrust his steely right at the flustered Saxon who could only wonder at what had hit him, before he gasped his last breath.

Quickly Lancelot got up and turned to check the position of his companions. He could see Galahad safely positioned at the southern bank of the river, facing him now. Arthur was just riding into the back of a group of fleeing Saxons some two hundred yards away from him, Bors and Dagonet had dismounted and were fighting back to back against a whole circle of enemies closing in on them, Gawain was still on horse back, ever moving and lending them a hand with his bow while riding around them.

Lancelot turned, prompted by a stiff cry and saw that Guinevere had at last ordered her reinforcements into battle. He saw her run down the slope like a goddess straight out of some old tale, her axe raised above her head, hair trailing behind her and he thanked the Gods that this time she was not leading an attack directed at him.

The woads looked impressive; all painted in blue, screaming their outrage, death in their eyes. He saw which way Guinevere had focussed her assault and immediately identified her target.  
_Oh… no, Milady… this one is mine, _he thought as a quick smile passed over his face and mounting Ban who had already been waiting beside him, rode in front of the running woads into the new centre of the battle.  
They hit the Saxon line at full speed, crashing into shields and swords, but their drive was only slightly slowed. The first two lines of hunkered down Saxons were immediately overrun, facing the second wave of the woads now that in wise anticipation – ten paces behind the first wave – covered the rear. Taken from the front and behind they wouldn't stand a chance.

Merlin had ordered his pipers to play up again, as soon as he had seen Guinevere attack. Galahad's ears where soaring from the wailing sound and he wished he could have them stop. Except that he knew from his own experience only too well how intoxicating the sounds where to the woads while in battle. If it helped them to slay more Saxons, he could suffer their unfamiliar sound attacking his ears.  
Meanwhile he noticed that the battle had shifted its focus of intensity towards what he thought to be the commander of the Saxon troops. The enemy forces were now being pushed back towards the old tree where he sat glowering at the counterattack from the west and Galahad had seen Lancelot preceding the woad attack, launching himself right into the middle of the enemy forces. _Reckless_, he thought. _As usual._  
Galahad tried to determine the odds of the fight. Apparently the Saxons had been taken by surprise at the knights' sudden appearance and the earlier incursion to the south seemed like a trap now, destined to draw them away from the wall, to dispose of Arthur and his companions to open an unhindered passage for a greater host. Quite obviously the Barbarians had underestimated Arthur and the native fighters. And Galahad was able to see that the balance had tipped in favour of the Britons.  
He looked at Merlin and stated edgily: "We should finish them off. They won't stand a chance if we move in now. The quicker this is over, the better." The Woad leader only nodded his consent, for he knew that Galahad didn't need it. He could see the young knight's barely hidden eagerness to join his friends in battle only too clearly.  
With the main fight turned away from the river, Merlin started to assemble his troops on the northern bank.

Startled by a growing wheezing sound, Arthur turned to the south and was greeted by Galahad and Merlin, leading two lines of blue-painted archers pouring their arrows in the back of the Saxon host.  
Arthur had dismounted Utr and joined the fight on foot by now. With tight, rapid strokes he set himself to gain some ground, taking out anyone opposing him. Gradually the line of enemies thinned around him and he noted that – because of Guinevere's charge and the growing storm of arrows from the south– the fight was drawn to the right flank of the initial advance of the Saxons.

And Aelric, Saxon warlord from a long line of warriors, saw that his plan had failed. His troops were outnumbered and heavily pressed from two sides now.

The day was lost. He had been defeated.

However, he would not admit his defeat with a bowed head begging for mercy. He took the reins of his horse and made to retreat. _Better to fight another day than lay dead on foreign ground_, he mused. He would get another chance at this Roman, and he laughed. _We will keep coming. Rest assured. Britain will be ours and Rome will fall. We will keep coming and our valour will prevail in the end.. _

Approaching the Ash tree, Guinevere felt her heart jolt with anticipation. Spurred on by the pipers and the stinging smell of blood all around her, she made right for the alluring enemy leader up on his horse. His proud composure tempted her, draw her to him and she longed to crown a British victory with his blood. She approached him fast from behind, throwing her axe at his back, hoping to catch him off guard. In that instant – as if guided by some higher power – Aelric's horse turned with a loud neigh and the axe went sailing past them. Facing the enemy towering above her she drew her short sword and nodded in defiance at the Saxon to dare her. He barely smirked at the challenge.

Digging his heels into the side of his horse he forced it to rise high above the slender blue-painted warrior, only to immediately force it down on her. Both front hooves hit her in the chest at full force and sent her crashing onto the ground with a tremendous force. She felt several ribs break. Coiled up on the ground, completely winded, she fought for air that obstinately refused to fill her lungs. She saw the hooves rise once more, but couldn't move to save herself. She tried to roll from their reach. Her chest was filled with fire now. She managed to get a few gasps of breth, but the pain was chocking her. She broke into a sweat and panic rose in her. She tried at least to shift to her left as the horse came down on her. Then she felt her left leg snap with a dull sound almost exploding in her ear. She had no air for a scream to ease her agony. Finally everything around her started to blur and as she braced herself for the next blow she slipped away into a blessed void.

"Guinevere!"

Lancelot had seen her charge at the Saxon leader without any caution and immediately reacted to join her. He slowed his horse with a soft, but steady pressure from his thighs while he pushed his right sword into the scabbard on his back and slipping from his stirrups, gracefully swung from his horse. He held the rim of the saddle to steady himself as he made contact with the ground and using the drive of the moving horse, brandished the sword in his left to kill the Saxon in front of him, blocking his way.

He ran at Aelric from behind and with a vengeful scream sliced both back tendons of his horse, causing it to collapse. Aelric was propelled from his saddle, hitting the ground heavily between Lancelot and an unconscious Guinevere.

Using both swords now, Lancelot started to circle around Aelric, waiting for him to rise. He was appalled and furious at Guinevere's unresponsiveness. He resented her reckless charge at this wicked Saxon. She had misjudged her foe. And Lancelot felt like he had failed to fulfil an implicit duty towards her. He should have looked out for her. He should have protected her. And even if he knew very well that she was able to defend herself, he felt guilty at the sight of her in the dirt. She was his ally for pity's sake and he left her to be trampled to death. He saw that her leg was crushed, pointing off at an odd angle and a pool of blood had formed under it.

Focusing his eyes on his adversary again who had his own sword drawn now, he cocked his head and flipped his swords once… twice… and then went for his attack.

On their side Bors and Dagonet had managed to clear themselves of the surrounding Saxons, dead bodies covering the earth around them in a circle."Now that was fun." Bors stated with a wide grin directed at Dagonet who was whipping blood from his face with his sleeve.  
"Hmm…." He grumbled at Bors, not really agreeing with his friend's idea of fun.  
"Fun? Of course it was fun for _you, _since Dag and I did all the work here."  
Gawain, bow still in hand, a smirk on his face, had ridden up to them, stopping his horse only inches from Bors' face. The later only glared upwards at Gawain.  
"All the work? Is that why you're still sitting on that horse, you cripple?" he sniggered pointing at Gawain's bandaged leg.  
Now it was Gawain's turn to glare. But as he looked down at his left wrist, he saw that he was nursing several long cuts in his palm, blood trickling onto his breeches. The balance feathers of the countless arrows he had shot had continually grazed their path into his flesh.

"Here…" Bors had stepped up to him and pulled a bandage from the saddlebag to staunch the blood, a wink in his eye.  
"We've won." Dagonet, looking to the west, stated in his own calm and settled way. "Merlin has moved in with his archers. It's only a matter of time now."

Covered in thick Saxon blood, steadied by Arthur's tireless arm and his firm hold, Excalibur was singing. An ageless song of war and courage, pride and power.  
To the Saxons felled by it's might it was a simple, almost painless death song, to Arthur however it rang of his own hope and strength.  
His Hope for peace in some too distant future and the Strength to choose his own fate.

Excalibur was the sword of a dreamer. And only a dreamer could relentlessly continue the fight for a better world and continue to brandish this sword.  
Where realists bow and deliver themselves to defeat, a dreamer will take up arms and fight. For their love, their pride and all that lies behind the fear and the anguish caused by doubt.

Glancing off to the east towards the still burning farmhouses, Arthur reflected that they mirrored his smoking heart. He had not wanted this fight. He had not wanted the death of all those men. In all his life he had never willingly looked for a fight. All had been forced on him. But nevertheless his soul squirmed at the number of lives he had taken. And it left him empty.  
Suddenly he was called to attention by a hawk's cry above him and a quick movement to his right.

Arthur closed his eyes and turned.

When he opened them again, he was faced with a Saxon axe and a beast of a man grinning madly at him. He didn't move as the Barbarian came running at him, his double bladed battle axe brandished high over his head.

Only at the last possible moment did he bring up Excalibur and bent his knee to absorb the impact of the two weapons colliding, while steadying his glorious sword with his own iron wrist plate.

He lowered his eyes to look at Excalibur resting at an even angle before his eyes. He noticed the blood already drying on the blade.

And, with a swift lunge – almost absent minded – he straightened his knee; thrust the axe away from him, throwing the brute off balance. With one step, Arthur was on him and without looking down or any other sign of remorse cut his throat, a gloomy expression settling in his eyes.

Aelric was impressed at the force of this proud knight that had dared to challenge him. They had been exchanging blow for blow over long minutes now, and still he could not see any sign of fatigue in the man's stance or movements. But he would not let this one have the better of him and secretly pulled out the dagger that rested in his belt. He sidestepped one of Lancelot's lunges instead of just parrying them as he had before. In an flash, the knight was level with him not being able to react to the sudden change in tactics, and with a satisfied laugh Aelric plunged his dagger deep into Lancelot's thigh from behind. With another laugh he gave it a heartily twist to keep the wound from closing right away.

Lancelot could barely stifle a cry as he felt the sharp blade enter his tensed muscles and only just managed to steady himself from falling to his knees. He quickly turned to face Aelric again as he got hold of the dagger still embedded up to it's hilt in his leg. Bracing himself, he pulled and let out a long moan.

He knew that he had just lost the advantage of fighting on two healthy legs. But true to his famous pride and courage, he launched himself into a series of quick thrusts and parries in order to switch sides with Aelric again, for he wouldn't have him standing anywhere near Guinevere. A quick look sideways showed him that she was still unconscious, slowly bleeding to death at his feet.

Tristan looked at the sky again. He had seen Gawain distance, took in that Bors and Dagonet seemed to stand on their own and had checked that Arthur was in no immediate danger, he didn't check for Galahad since he thought him to command the archer attack. _That makes five. Where is Lancelot?_ Suddenly an unclear dread made his heart race. He couldn't quite make out what had unsettled him. It was like the clouded vision you might get from too much ale: you can still see, but everything is out of focus. He whistled, urging his hawk to show herself.

Lancelot, with another collection of his quickest moves that sent a cold sweat to rest on his heating forehead, pushed Aelric away from the inert body. He felt his blood flow in a cascade of wet crimson down his leg. He was tiring rapidly now, his moves were loosing their renowned precision for which he tried to compensate with speed. Stepping up the pace to gain control of the fight again, he tried to press Aelric who continued to simply parry Lancelot's attacks.

And then, in the middle of a swinging move, his legs gave way under him with a shocking simplicity.

The woad archers, led by Galahad in tight formation, had annihilated the Saxons from the rear, tearing in shreds their already unstable line. Galahad himself had left the command of the archers to Merlin once they were in place and had steered his horse to the left, away from the arrows into a group of Saxons looking for retreat. Sword in hand, he leaned down from his horse – Gareth – and felled one of the retreating by a thrust in the back. As he had passed the group, he sharply pulled on the reigns, sending a sharp sting to his wounded arm, but he ignored it and turned Gareth to face the terrified Saxons. They had lost all will and courage to fight and he dispatched them easily, having the advantage of both speed and height. When he straightened himself up again, he just saw Tristan's hawk to the north, spiralling down in one of her killing descents at alarming speed.

Lancelot, on his knees, leaned on the hilt of one of his swords to support him, everything around him was turning and he barely managed to bring up his right sword to keep Aelric at a distance.

_This can't be. This is not happening. I can't... not… now… not like this,_ he thought as a shiver passed through him.

He looked up as Aelric let out another of his hoarse laughs, barely able to focus on the man in front of him.

With a last parry on Lancelot's weakened blade and a fluid move Aelric closed in.

Both hands on the hilt, he drove his blade down on Lancelot's shoulder leaving a deep dent in the plate that covered it and ever pulling downwards sliced clean through the breast studding as if it was pure linen, crushing and breaking the chains of the mail below it with terrible ease. The blade slit deep into the chest without a sound.

As Lancelot came down to hit the ground, cut down by the heavy blow, he was abruptly immersed in a blessed silence. He didn't hear Aelric's triumphant growl anymore, nor the piercing cry of the hawk above him. He couldn't make out any of the battle sounds that had beset his ears only seconds before. He didn't hear his enemy stepping up behind his back.

He could only feel the wet grass on his cheek as his head came to rest on the trampled green pillow.

His eyes, suddenly clear of any dizziness, focussed on a single blade of grass upright before his sight. One single blade in an ocean of crushed green.

_Arthur… _he whispered, seeking one last comfort. _Arthur…_

A last blessing accompanied the beloved name in his darkening mind, all words failing him.

And just as Tristan's hawk touched down before him, he slowly closed his eyes.


	6. Ash, Ruin and Demise II

Thank you so much for the nice reviews. Another 'thanks' goes out to the silent readers I know: Turicum, Marchesa and the nameless ones. Tell me: Aren't you bored by now? Doesn't it all seem way too predictable?

Anyway. I had huge trouble entering this chapter. Well, no. Entering the chapter was fine. But finding a seamless continuation was the difficult one. The battle scene left me just as empty as Arthur I guess. So I tried to steady the pace a bit. I think it's terrible. Please tell me what you think. (A little soundtrack hint: I've you have the Celtic Heartland CD by Ron Korb, choose the 'Tribal Lament" for reading this... Love. Y.-)

Ivory: ME? Evil? HA! Nice one… Do I look as if I could kill my Gorgeous? Unlike you ;-)) … you killed LEGOLAS for pete's sake… not to speak of burning Lance alive… No. For now he lives. He will not ask you for a dance right away, but he lives.

HGandRHrforever: Thank you so much for your reviews. I am glad you like the story so far. Ah, Dearest… what can I say. I really tried to kill Galahad. And someone is going to into a laughter fit right now, if I say this, but: I REALLY TRIED! My original plot had Galahad dead. Broken neck. End of scene. Well, he resisted all attempts at his dear life so chivalrously, and now… he's still alive… I so dearly love him, but he screwed up my whole plotting… grrr… :-D

* * *

_**Ash, Ruin and Demise (cont.)**_

With a long stretched jump Gareth set over a dead Saxon blocking his way, as Galahad spurred him on. He was taking up his bow that was dangling from the saddle and although his hot and searing arm advised him strongly against it, placed a white tipped arrow from a still filled quiver on the string. Galahad hadn't seen Lancelot fall, but he knew exactly where to look for him, as the hawk had given him a precise direction. And soon enough he came in sight of Aelric standing over Lancelot.

Aelric had stepped at the knight's side and turned him on his back with a well-placed kick.He looked at the ashen, bloodless face under the full brown curls.

_Ah… this one's gone already,_ hesighed, considering his options of leaving the battlefield alive. Just as he turned around to Guinevere, his eyes suddenly went wide with shock. He glanced at his shoulder only to see the angry tip of an arrow protruding from it.

Galahad knew he had only one shot left in his arm and he had intended to use it well, aiming for the head. He had enough practise in shooting a bow from a moving horse to dare such a shot. Unfortunately, Gareth, noblest of all horses to ever serve a knight, tripped over a rabbit hole, causing Galahad to lose balance only for a split second. It was enough for the shot to go wide, missing the intended target, hitting only Aelric's shoulder.

Gareth was desperately trying to regain his step, but the pace had been too high and he landed on his knees. Galahad tried to cling to the saddle, leaning backwards to take his weight off the front legs of his horse. To no avail. As Gareth hit the ground, he was thrown off over the horses head, landing on his already badly mangled arm. He let out a yelp of surprise mixed with pain. Then the lights went out on him and he came to a halt in front of Aelric's feet.

_By Thor's hammer! _Aelric thought. And he knew that his gods still deemed him worthy, for they had just delivered him a possibility to escape unscathed. He mustered the knight that had just so ungracefully landed before him. An angry gash decorated his forehead where he had obviously hit a stone, knocking him unconscious. He thanked the valour of his forefathers that had clearly graced the Gods to save his life and send him a horse, no less.

An embarrassed Gareth was slowly trotting to his master, head bowed down, snuffling. Aelric gingerly approached him with an outstretched hand. Gareth shook his head, softly nudging Galahad and not paying any attention to the man standing before him. Galahad did not wake. Quickly Aelric had taken the reins, shortened the strap that tied the halter to the harness and thus pulling Gareth's head down. He didn't want any trouble with the unfamiliar horse that was quite openly displaying his dismay at the fact that he had thrown off his rightful rider. He went back to Galahad, grabbed an arm and pulling him on his shoulders, heaved him in front of the saddle before swinging onto the horse himself, grunting but from the pain in his arm. He pulled out a blanked from the rolled pack behind him and draped it over the limp body, covering it.

_Time to go_… And with a heavy clap on his flank spurred on a quite reluctant, but powerless Gareth.

---

Arthur turned as a hurried Tristan passed him in full gallop, only managing a quick "Follow me…!" as he rode in direction of the lonely ash tree. He whistled for Utr to join him and set after Tristan as fast as he could and suddenly he feared he knew the cause of his dread of the passed days. _Please, don't let anymore die for me. Please, Dear father. _

He didn't realise that he was praying, maybe it had become his second nature in battle. A small part of his mind was always preoccupied to call a blessing on his loyal companions.

But when he saw his brother… lying in a wide green sea of grass, the prayer was suddenly sounding loud in his mind, blocking out effectively the moans and cries of the dying he passed by.

He slowly joined Tristan at Lancelot's side, so slowly… as if he didn't dare to approach him. Tristan, with his gentle touch, placed a hand on Lancelot's brow feeling cold sweat. It felt like ice. And just as Arthur hadn't dared to approach, he didn't dare to touch the body before him. As if any of those actions would acknowledge the unthinkable… the unbearable. There was nothing but silence in him and around him. There was no prayer in his mind anymore. No words, not even emotion. Only emptiness.

Blood. There was blood everywhere. In the mud around them, on armour, breeches, limbs, hands and weapons. The chest wound was marked by a steady trickle of the precious liquid. Blood, mud and death. Everywhere.

Tristan stood up unhurriedly, looking out for his other companions. He felt that Arthur was steadily slipping away from him, escaping what he could not accept, what would eventually break his heart with a loud shatter. He could do nothing as he was at a loss of words himself.

And then it hit him like someone had just pulled a blindfold from his eyes. The chest wound was still bleeding with a clear rhythm. His heart was still beating.

"Arthur…" He placed his hand lightly on his commander's shoulder, still not getting a reaction.  
"Arthur." Almost imploring now. "We need to tend to his wounds…"  
Without a word or even a nod, Arthur started to open the laces that kept Lancelot's armour in place.

"Don't touch the armour." A stern and grave voice beside them spoke.  
Merlin knelt down beside Arthur and stated: "It will keep some pressure on the wound."  
He looked down at the leg and took in the damage. He started to get up again, turning to Tristan asked for something strong enough to stop the bleeding. As Tristan offered him a blinding white bandage, he simply said: "We'll need more than that…" and pulled some strands of his breaded leather belt. They wanted to turn Lancelot to his side, but as Merlin stretched out his hand to touch the shoulder, it was intercepted by a firm grip. He looked up to face a pair of green eyes. And just as he was about to say something, Arthur tenderly took his friend up by both shoulders, pulling him into a tight, one-sided embrace.

"NO!!"  
A piercing cry rung out over the desolate land, but no one turned to see Gawain riding up at full speed, Bors and Dagonet right behind him. "How…? What…? Tristan…?" Gawain only managed to stutter as he looked down at Lancelot in Arthur's arms, dead it seemed.

Bors swallowed heavily as he saw the stillness in Arthur's eyes. It reminded him of an early morning chill on a snowy hill.

"Quit standing around. He's still alive, but he won't be for long if I can't stop the bleeding. So make yourselves useful and hold him down." He stood up and said in a low voice: "Dagonet. Can I ask you to look to Guinevere?" The knight only nodded and turned away.  
Bending down again, Merlin placed the bandage over the deep circular wound in Lancelot's thigh and strapped the strands of leather around it. Without any warning, he pulled.  
An almost eternally long moan came from Lancelot, cradled at Arthur's neck. The green eyes started to glitter.

Dagonet couldn't tell what shocked him more: Arthur's silence, Lancelot's state or Guinevere as he reached her. "How are you feeling, my lady?" He said in a soothing tone as he knelt beside her. She turned her eyes on him, her breathing flat, but steady in her chest.  
"Like a horse had run me over…?" She whispered. Dagonet smiled against himself. _Good Gods._  
"You're hurting. Can I do something for you?" He started to take off his coat and placed it over the small body. He looked down and Guinevere didn't miss his increasing frown.  
"Please… tell me."  
"Your leg is broken, Dear. It looks bad." He knew she would see through every lie he would be telling her.  
She closed her eyes and asked him for some water. He took her up as gentle as he could, but the pain in her chest left her panting heavily and she pressed her head to his broad shoulder.  
"I am sorry to cause you even more pain, my lady." He apologised.  
She only shook her head not able to speak. Then he saw why. She lifted a hand and pointed at the group standing only yards from them. "Lancelot…!" she barely managed to speak the name and Dagonet without noticing started to cradle her trying to offer them both some comfort.

While Merlin was organising the care of the wounded and dead and sent for several healers of his clan to come to the wall, Gawain started to pace around as if he was looking for something. He was mumbling a constant _no, no, no, I won't..._ and Bors stepped up to him, asking "What is it?" Bors frowned at the tears in Gawain's eyes and then it dawned on him.  
"I … I… can't find him." Was all Gawain managed to say. Bors on the other hand started one of his renowned tirades of native curses that prompted Dagonet.  
"Did you see the damned Saxon ride off on Gareth earlier?" Bors asked him, anger red on his face.  
"Yes… I thought I knew that horse… but… where is…" A strong glare cut off his sentence. Galahad was gone. He was nowhere on the field around them and the enemy leader had just taken off on his horse. Gawain, although in a similar dream state as Arthur before, must have come to the same conclusions, because he turned abruptly and started to mount his horse.  
"I'll go with him." Bors said turning to Dagonet and then looking back at Gawain, fearing that little glint in his eyes for it did not announce a good turn of things.

---

Arthur had ridden like never before in his life. As if the devil himself was behind him. He somehow imagined that if he reached the garrison fast enough, all would be fine. Lancelot would live. He only needed to reach the wall. It was the only thought on his mind.  
Merlin, who had ridden after him without being asked, thought about the wounds and contemplated the options.  
Lancelot had lost a lot of blood indeed. It was the main threat, for the blade had not managed to break any ribs or hurt any of the organs. _Well, as far as you could see. _He thought grimly.  
Arthur on the other hand was a different matter. The commander was in a fragile state. Merlin could see it in his bearings. He was dangerously close of letting go of the world he was rooted in.  
He hadn't spoken a word while he had tended to Lancelot's wounds, his eyes had done all the talking.

He had seen it happen a lot with people losing what they cherish most. When a wave of white fever had hit several villages of his clan some years before, his healing skills had been heavily tested. A lot of people had died, many of them children. One mother wouldn't let anyone approach to take her dead child from her for days. She hadn't spoken either, only sitting in her empty house, holding her child. No crying or wailing.

One morning she got up and walking from the village, the child still in her arms. She had walked towards the high cliffs of the sea and Merlin had followed her. Not because he intended to stop what was about to happen. He didn't think it in his power to stop it. But he had followed her nevertheless, for he couldn't leave her alone. She had stepped up to the rim of the cliff, the sea roaring below her, never taking her eyes off the horizon. She turned around one last time, looking at him with an empty stare. Then, she closed her eyes and made one small step into the void, taking her dead child with her.

_The soul is a marvel._ He thought. It can take so many blows, deceptions, terror and endure so many trials bestowed on its owner. But it will not accept what it cannot bear. And that's where people came so close to ending it all. Not because they could not face a life after, but because it made no sense to them. And even though as a druid he had enough possibilities to even save such deeply hurt souls, he knew that the 'could' didn't mean it would be the right thing to do. It was a fragile balance. And he had no right to come between a person and their choice.

But, looking back at Arthur, he thought for the first about a transgression of that eternal law.

* * *

Aelric had finally reached his destination. The old farmhouse he had captured with his men some days before lay just before him, up on the cliff, right above the sea. He nodded to a scouting guard that had just stepped from the trees to his left and spurred on his horse once more. 

He was greeted by his cousin Horsa with a questioning look. "The men?" he simply asked.

"Unworthy." Came the reply just as simple.  
Giving a still unconscious Galahad a hefty shove, Aelric dropped his prisoner right in front of a laughing Horsa. The courtyard was suddenly buzzing with gaping Saxons.

"Very good, cousin. Very good indeed."  
"How many have come so far, Horsa?" Aelric asked and lowered himself, flinching at the pain from the arrow that still stuck in his shoulder.  
"3 ships since this morning. Wuffa has arrived and he says that another 5 will be here in the next days."  
"Good. Now get that prisoner sorted and send me the girl. And ale. A lot of ale." Aelric gnarled striding off towards the farmhouse to get his wound looked at.  
Both men were oblivious of the two pair of eyes watching them from the small group of trees Aelric had just passed or of their scout that was lying dead in the copse beside them.

"I knew it." Bors growled. "That's why I haven't seen anybody from Padarn's family at the Wall lately. His daughter is a friend of Venora."

Gawain looming lividly beside him. "We need to do something. Now." He managed to say.

"We can't do anything, Gawain. Please, be reasonable. Have you seen how many Saxons are swarming around that guy? We need to inform Arthur and form a plan. Rushing in will only result in getting us killed as well and…" Bors said, not noticing his error.  
"Arthur??? IF he's still with us. Have you even seen the state he was in?" Gawain cut him off turning his seething look on Bors.

Of course Bors had seen Arthur and his demeanour had shocked him more than any outburst of anger or rage could have. He took Gawain at both shoulders.  
"Listen to me. We will get Galahad back. I promise. And if it's the last thing I'll be doing."

Gawain and Bors had ridden in silence up north for some time now. Their minds were charged with the images of a dying Lancelot and a captured Galahad, both lying in the mud, both delivered to hours of pain and suffering that lay ahead of them.  
"Do you think he'll…" Gawain started to ask the dreaded question.  
"I don't know." Bors cut him off harsher than he had intended. "And I don't want to think about it, but see for myself."  
Gawain only nodded. He shivered as light slowly faded and the rain started again.

* * *

The door slammed shut behind Arthur. Jols, on the other side of the door that had only just missed his face, was dumbfounded. He had rarely seen Arthur this way. He hadn't spoken a word upon their arrival. Only Merlin had offered a quick explanation and asked him to prepare the stables for the many wounded that would soon arrive under Dagonet and Tristan's guard. Jols wondered how many there were, and what had happened to the others for Arthur to come home alone, in such bad shape. 

Arthur threw his armour on the floor, touching his hot chest. He could still feel the pressure of Lancelot's body against his, the cold that had emanated from him. So cold. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily as he stepped to his water bowl to wash away the sweat and the blood that covered him from head to toe. He needed a moment alone. In darkness, to match his inner state. But suddenly he felt something move in the corner of his eye and as he turned he saw the man that had been waiting for him.

"Arthur."

"So… that's what Jols tried to tell me." He said in a hoarse voice. It was the first thing he had said since midday.  
"You have chosen a very bad day for your visit, My Lord."

"All days are bad if the unexpected creeps up on us." The man stated.

Arthur continued to rub away of the signs of the battle that weighed so heavy on his heart, silent again. He was in a hurry. And if he couldn't get any peace to think, he preferred to hasten back to his friend's side.

"What happened?" The voice in the darkness asked.

"Don't ask… I am in no state to tell you. Nor do I have the time to." He grabbed a fresh shirt of plain black wool and added: "My room is at your disposal, as always. We will speak later." Not looking back he turned, leaving the door wide open.

---

He felt like some rodent was gnawing at his chest. Biting off small bits of flesh to satisfy its hunger. He lifted a hand to swat the nasty offender away. Someone caught it in midway.

"Easy now. Easy." A hoarse whisper in his ear.  
"Arthur…" he mumbled still only half awake. He drew a laboured breath and felt a fiery pain hitting his chest. He broke into a sweat.  
"Yes. Now calm yourself…" Arthur's voice was drawing his mind from the heavy darkness that was filling him and he longed to open his eyes. But he feared what awaited him.  
He remembered the fight quite clearly, his defeat was burnt into his memory with painful force.

"Lancelot…"

He slowly tried to open his eyes but found he couldn't. A low groan started building up in his throat as consciousness steadily started to gain on him. He was cold. So utterly cold. And still something was steadily ripping at his chest.  
His eyes snapped open, tears immediately welling up in them as the light blinded him. He squinted, but refused to close his eyes again.  
"Arthur…" he moaned again, a tired smile crossing his face as he saw him.  
"I'm here. I won't leave you."  
Arthur looked up into Merlin's grey eyes as he whispered: "The chain mail is free from the wound now. We need to pull the shoulder piece out."  
Arthur nodded, turning his gaze back to the terrible wound. Merlin had finally removed the studding and it had revealed a lot of crushed chains deeply lodged in the cut. The shoulder plate on the other side of the gash was dented showing the force of the blow. The edge had cut through Lancelot's skin and embedded itself into the muscle.  
Arthur sat down on the table where his friend was lying, still as ever, and tenderly lifted his head onto his shoulder, causing a painful groan that pierced him deep down in his already heavy heart.

"I'm here." He simply said, cupping Lancelot's cold cheek as he looked to Merlin, who without any warning pulled the metal out with one swift motion.

Arthur felt Lancelot tense in his arms, breathing heavily now as he threw his head back looking up at the ceiling once more. The breathing stopped and for a split second, Arthur feared for the worst. Then he felt the body go limp against his own chest followed by a shallow, wheezing breathing, as Lancelot was gained by unconsciousness again and he put him down as softly as he could.

"Will he live?" He asked Merlin while secretly gripping the edge of the table he was sitting on.

Merlin looked up into a stormy sea and said: "Frankly. We have no way of knowing. He has lost a lot of blood. I still need to clean the wound with _aqua beata_ to bypass any infection. This will strain him again…" he left his voice trail off as he knew what would come.

"I'll do it." Arthur said and glanced back to contemplate the ashen face beside him. _He's so pale. I've never seen anyone so pale before. _

Merlin wrung out a piece of linen that was soaked with the stinging smell of brandy. Jols, in his ever watchful habit of anticipating what someone needed, had provided Merlin with everything he wished for, without him even asking. The steward certainly was used to a lot of blood, injury and battle souvenirs of sorts, and since he couldn't join the fight, he could what he did to ease the aftershocks of it. But even Jols – as used as he was to the sight of grim wounds – had flinched when he saw the state in which Arthur had brought Lancelot back to the garrison.

Arthur had taken the cloth from Merlin now, and started to clean the clotted blood and gore away from the torn muscles with loving hands. Lancelot cringed as he felt the stinging liquid touch him, but Arthur's warm caress on his brow eased him back to his sleep.

"Arthur. He has a strong heart. Strong enough for the fight that lies before him. There is no internal damage so far. You should take some rest now."

Arthur didn't answer him. He felt a distinctive warmth coming from the hand that the wise man had placed on his shoulder. Like a fire in plain winter, it slowly started to spread throughout his body, and he closed his eyes. He saw a wide blue sky drawn over a wide green land. The sun warm in his neck, the breeze sweet on his face.

When he opened his eyes again, he felt easier than he had before. Rested. And he turned with wonder in his eyes to Merlin who greeted him with a smile.

"Are you trying to cast a spell on me?" There was no reproach in his voice.

Merlin only continued to smile and turned to pull a blanket on their patient.


	7. Ash, Ruin and Demise III

To all reviewers: Thank you for your encouraging and extremely kind words. You're pushing me to keep going! A big thanks (as usual) to Ivory for sending some of you over huggles  
Special thanks are at the end of the chapter.

* * *

_**Ash, Ruin and Demise (cont.)**_

Galahad was shocked back to consciousness by a full bucket of water landing in his face. His blurting and coughing caused someone to laugh nearby.

When he finally was able to focus on his surroundings again he was surprised to be in a rather spacious hall with a ready built fire and several people standing around him. The Saxon who had woken him was grinning widely, bucket still in hand.

"Well, well, look who's decided to wake up…" a low voice in direction of the fire said. A man was sitting at the table beside it and Galahad recognised the broad shoulders of the Saxon leader as well as his own arrow tip still stuck below his collar bone. Judging from the slight slur in the voice Aelric had prepared himself with enough liquor for the painful removal procedure.

Wiping the water from his eyes Galahad felt the deep cut on his forehead and cursed his bad luck under his breath. Not only had he fallen off his own horse, oh no. He had also been taken captive by his enemies like some bloody amateur.

"Come on... let's get this over with." Aelric bellowed and a small figure stepped up beside Aelric, her silhouette visible against the light of the fire behind her. She put down a bowl on the table and without a word reached for the arrow. She looked into Aelric's face and he noticed a quick glint pass over hers. A low grunt of pain later she held one end of the arrow shaft and dropped it in the bowl.

"Ah… you're enjoying this, aren't you?" he said mockingly to her while he grabbed her wrist with one hand and with the other pulled her to him. As if she hadn't even noticed the hand gripping her backside, she fixed Aelric defiantly and without offering any answer, she grabbed the front of the arrow and turned. Aelric hissed sharply, the smirk never really leaving his expression as he hit her square in the face without a warning.

"Don't even think about getting up…" Horsa was standing above Galahad who could barely disguise his anger at Aelric.

"Why? Because you only hit women? Bloody Saxon cowards…" he said getting up and mustering Horsa upwards as he came to stand directly in front of him, glaring back at him.

Galahad, his usual self, was quick to anger and being taken captive the way he had and now witnessing these brutes assailing a woman sure was too much to take.

"You'll learn what's good for you around here fast enough. Scum." Horsa stated just before his fist landed in Galahad's abdomen with an exploding effect. He doubled over, but refused to back down and straightened himself once he had regained his breath a second later and grunted: "And _you_'ll teach me I suppose…?" He had had enough. He knew that he had no control over what was going to happen to him. But he had some control over the Saxon's attention now, it was all he wanted. Aelric only observed the fight across the room, while the woman had slowly stood up, her eyes speaking murder which bemused Aelric even more as he looked at her again. In silence she pulled the rest of the arrow from his shoulder.

Just then Horsa made one step backwards and looked at the five Saxons surrounding Galahad and simply said: "Why should I?" And with that the Saxons closed in on him. The knight resisted going down as best as he could, trying to get some self-esteem back into him by offering his enemies proud defiance. But as the first blow hit his wounded arm, he couldn't suppress a painful scream. Only seconds later, all went black again.

* * *

The light was already dim over the soaked hills, the rain had only been a passing nuisance and with its last force the sun had managed to break through the heavy clouds in the west just as it was going down. 

Dagonet could see the garrison and the wall looming in the distance, enlightened only by a faint light of the fading sun. Guinevere, half asleep, shifted in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder. He thought of the last three days and the amount of dread and difficulty that had been sent in his and his companion's direction. He wondered if Lancelot was still alive and instinctively prepared himself for another loss.

No. Not just another loss. But the loss of one of their best. A brother. Who had been fighting alone. He had no idea how it had happened or why, but it was a terrible error the members of the Round table would have to face. They had been outwitted by the Saxons twice in three days and the toll of the dead at Corbridge and the wounded walking behind him, weighed heavily. Lancelot, Galahad, Guinevere… He looked down softly touching her head with his free hand. She was exhausted and he saw that she was not unconscious, but sleeping. He had not dared to straighten her broken leg, fearing that it might cause her to loose too much blood until they could reach the wall.

It had taken him and Tristan some time to organise as much help as they could from the surrounding farms and Corbridge itself, move the wounded and leave the dead in the care of the villagers. They knew very well what would have awaited them, had the Saxons succeeded in seizing the village and the rule over the Tyne River. Taking care of the warriors that had died defending their freedom was a grim and gruesome task they accepted willingly however.

As the sinking sun cast its ever stronger light across the land, refusing to go unnoticed, the world was painted in contrasting shadows of dark green, vague grey, burning yellow and golden red. The glow crushed like a wave of colour on the ramparts of the Great Wall, spilling its almost bemusing waning force over everything it fell upon, and at the same time never reaching the ground, and thus leaving it in utter darkness. Like a beacon the garrison tower shone to welcome the trek of suffering and misery led by a solitary Dagonet – a sleeping Guinevere in his arms.

-

_What are our trials and worries to the trees? What are our lives compared to the span through space and time of a tree? When only after so many years of tearing and pushing from wind and snow, trunk and branch finally give in and bend to force? What is our struggle compared to this? Like strong timber withstands, you gave me the force to withstand all blows, Dear Lord. The power to face all future trials. Where is this force now? Why have you left me? You. My Lord?_

Arthur still felt like someone had hit him over the head over and over again and he suddenly feared that he was starting to loose all sense. He was leaning with his back against the old ash tree just outside the garrison gate, one of his hands resting on the strong, still humid bark. It was the knights' assembly tree before riding out and it must have served this purpose for some hundred years, maybe even since the wall's first days judging the tree's age.

Bors and Gawain had arrived. Another blow to his already reeling soul. Galahad had been taken by the enemy. Everything seemed to be slipping from Arthur's hands and he couldn't stop it. He looked down at his hands mustering them. Lancelot was dying. And where had he been? Galahad had been taken captive. And where had he been? Guinevere was severely hurt. Where had he been?

He was in no mood to face either Gawain or Bors or the increasing doubt settling in their eyes. A doubt that only reflected his own. A doubt that grew with every passing minute.

He turned his look on the setting sun, its light never reaching him. And all of a sudden he was remembering his dream from last night. Had it really been only one day? One single day.

And as the light vanished from the world, a similar shadow to the one settling over the earth conquered Arthur's heart.

_mane... mane… thecel…  
(weighed… weighed… and found too light)  
And it means: God has weighed and fulfilled your kingdom, just as you have been weighed and found wanting._

He understood.  
Pelagius' words, the signs of foreboding… all was getting too clear now. His next breath caused his eyes to well up and bitter tears came to rest on his cheeks.

_I have been weighed and found wanting. Too many deaths. Too many fallen friends. Not enough power. Not enough trust. _

_Have you not read the scripture? Don't you fool know that the Lord giveth and taketh away as it pleases him? How could you ever believe that you had the power to change the course of things? Illusions all around you. Love, friendship, the passionate bond that once linked you with your brethren, duty and honour. Where has it all gone now? Scattered in the strong wind of God's single breath. _

"What are your plans, Arthur?" Gawain, wrapped in a simple brown plaid against the rising cold, was standing in front of him, holding a cup in his hand. He handed it to his commander seeing the emptiness back in his eyes.

"Not now, Gawain." Arthur waved both the offered cup and the question aside impatiently.

Gawain narrowed his gaze, fixing Arthur.

"Yes." He stated with a firm voice, cup still in his hand, but empty. "Now."

Arthur was panting with anger and frustration, but remained silent as he wiped the wine from his face.

"We need to get Galahad back." Gawain used the opening he gave him by staying silent.

"And how would we do that? Hm?" Arthur snapped, venting his annoyance. "Same way Lancelot'll just walk out of that door any minute? Or rather how Guinevere will come riding along? Tell me _how_, Gawain!" He made one step towards his knight, fixing him.

"Do you really suppose that Galahad is still alive? Let's say he his, what then? Do you even have the guts to imagine what they'll do to him? DO YOU? And how long will he last? HOW LONG…?" Arthur couldn't finish his sentence, for the next thing he felt was his head hitting the trunk of the tree behind him, sending a flashing light through his vision.

Gawain stood with clenched fists, fuming.

Silence.

Until a low sobbing caused Arthur to slide down the trunk to the ground, as he gave in to his overwhelming affliction.

"How dare you to condemn him…" Gawain hissed. He had just for the first time in his whole life, hit the one person that made up his whole world. He had hit Arthur. Could it even get any worse?

He was angered and shocked at his friend and commander's complete lack of revolt. All he could see was an utterly defeated Arthur and no way of helping him through this.

"There are people who need you. Arthur! We need you now." Was all he could think to say.

Arthur lifted his head, his knees pulled up to his chin, a bitter ton in his voice now: "You have never needed me. None of you have." Slowly getting up, he came level with Gawain's eyes, staring at him. "All I ever did was to take advantage of the deal that had bound you and your future to Rome. All _I_ ever did was to take advantage of your trust in me. All _I_ ever did was to bind you to me in order to follow me in some ridiculous cause I have long lost a name for. What cause? Tell me, Gawain. Saving the Britons from the Saxons?" He let out an acerbic laugh.

"Merlin and Guinevere can command their own troops in battle. You've seen it just as I have… So, tell me, who would still dare to need me now? Now that I have ruined you all?"

Gawain looked up at the petalled canopy of the ash they were standing under, briefly wondering at the number of missions that had started here. Guinevere had once told him that ash trees were considered a symbol of life.

"I dare to need you, Arthur." He simply said and with a bright glint in his eyes pulled his lost brother into a crushing embrace.

-

The hooves rung out clearly on the ground as Dagonet reached the garrison, its great portal wide open for the trek to ride in. He was just passing the old assembly tree, when Guinevere stirred. He looked down at her and in the corner of his eyes saw Arthur and Gawain stand under the tree.

"Dagonet, at last. Everything is prepared." Jols had seen them coming and came to greet him. The knight bent down as well as he could and asked in that direct way of his: "How are Lancelot and Arthur?" Jols didn't answer the question, but gave him a look of unsure doubt as Arthur approached them at very moment, Gawain trailing behind him.

Arthur stepped up to Dagonet's side without a word and looked up, not at his knight, but at the figure resting in his arms.

He only motioned for Dagonet to hand her to him. Dagonet on the other hand tired desperately to find Arthur's eyes. When he finally did, he saw a wide green lake of frozen pain and unspoken ache. Dagonet barely managed a nod as a greeting, chilled by his friend's expression.

Guinevere woke as Dagonet's strong arms released her into Arthur's muscular, but cool embrace and her forehead came to rest on his cheek. She tried to hide the ever constant pain soaring through her. But still, she frowned and let out a muted moan as Arthur started to carry her towards the garrison courtyard, leaving Dagonet to shake his head at his back.

"My lord…?" Guinevere finally managed to breathe. Arthur's composure was unsettling her. She could feel the change in him screaming at her. The scream for someone to help him, was in the way he looked before him, in the lines in his face and the torn expression on it. It was like a voiceless wail for deliverance. Everyone could hear and see it, but nobody could reach him.

Arthur wondered at the almost weightless Guinevere in his arms, calling out for him once more, her voice warm on his right cheek while the other remained cold. Below the sweat and the blood and all other signs and stains of the battle, he could smell a soothing hint of grass mixed with the wet call of fainting trefoil. It was the smell of Britain.

"Arthur." She muttered and as a reply he only held her tighter as he carried her through the already lit up corridors. He took her to one of the empty chambers that had belonged to one of his fallen knights. When he lowered her onto the bed and turned to get Merlin, she took hold of his hand. She closed her eyes painfully as she covered it with her own, reaching out for him with that simple gesture of hers. As she opened her eyes again, Arthur hadn't moved and his doubts spilled from directly into her heart, all barriers broken. She gasped at what she saw and straining against the pain in her chest that made her breathe heavily, she sat up fixing him intently. Then she cupped both his cheeks in her hands and pressed the shadow of a kiss on his brow before he could build up his guard again, pouring all her love and longing in it, hoping to soothe his troubled mind.

-

Bors only hesitated for a moment in front of Lancelot's door before opening it slowly, wondering briefly at what waited behind it. They had moved Lancelot to his bed and he lay there like a statue, almost emblematic. If a steady movement of his chest wouldn't have proved that he was still breathing, Bors would have thought him dead. _Gods…_

Merlin was standing on the foot of the bed gazing backwards at Bors. "Dagonet and Tristan have arrived, I see. The Healers?"

"Not yet." Bors replied never taking off his eyes off Lancelot's ashen face.

"If he wakes, please give him the birch rind draught in that cup. It's all I had with me, but it will help to keep the fever from the blood loss away." Merlin turned to leave and brushed a warm hand over Bors' arm leaving both friends alone.

The brawny knight stepped hesitantly up to the bed and sat down beside Lancelot.

_How are you, dear brother? _He contemplated the gaunt, pale face that contrasted with the thick dark curls so shockingly.

And just as if Lancelot had heard the thought, he shifted his head and his eyes fluttered open. He frowned painfully at the dull pain all over him. He only had a very dim sensation of his body, his head on the other hand was heavy and throbbing terribly. He swallowed. "Water…" was all he managed to croak, his throat being too dry for anything else.

Bors supported his shoulders as he struggled to sit up, glad not to feel any signs of fever on the knight.

"Bors…" Lancelot breathed finally regaining some limited force of his voice. "… what is it?"

"How are you feeling?" Bors chose to simply ignore the question and took the cup Merlin had left. "Here…"

As he was lowered back again, Lancelot was panting from the struggle, but although he was so sweetly tempted to close his eyes, he fixed Bors attentively. "What… are you not telling me?"

Bors returned the look, but couldn't find a way to tell about Galahad's whereabouts.

"Nothing." he said, even managing a quick smile of comfort. "Don't strain yourself. Please."

"It's Guinevere… is she…?" Lancelot asked with an increasing frown. He could tell that Bors was keeping bad news from him.

"No."

"Good." Laneclot's voice was a low murmur now. "I'd hate to loose her. She's so reckless…"

"Rest now. Please, Lancelot." Bors said, placing a hand on Lancelot's arm, who sighed and closed his eyes, the deep frown still etched on his face.

"I know that you're keeping something from me…" Bors turned away at the knight's words. "… and if I wasn't so tired, I swear I'd kick you into telling me."

Bors couldn't help but laugh at the challenge.

"I bet you would…" he replied smirking, "…or try at least."

But Lancelot had already drifted away into a blessing slumber, leaving a lonely Bors to think about their lost companion.

-

Arthur closed the door to Guinevere's room behind him. He passed a tired hand through his hairs, shivering slightly at the cold draught in the corridor.

Merlin had just tended to Guinevere's broken bones. He had rarely seen such a badly broken leg as hers. The bone had broken through the muscles just below her knee.

Arthur was a battle proven man, had sustained enough injuries himself to not be touched or frightened by blood or wound, but he had flinched as he imagined the pain Guinevere was subjected to. He had stayed to comfort her, calm her as best as he could. Or was it rather her kiss that had calmed _him_ …into staying? He couldn't tell. He was no fool and her longing had not gone unnoticed.

He had no time to follow the thought, as a clearly distressed Jols came hurrying down the corridor towards him. "Arthur! The Saxon's have sent a messenger… "

* * *

The next time Galahad woke, he was surrounded by thick darkness. He could smell the damp earth around him and the faint tinge of smoked meat which told him that he was in some sort of pantry. He tried to sit up and was immediately rewarded with a spinning head, some unpleasant nausea and a nice shot of pain through his left arm. With bound hands, he tried to reach the wound and hissed as he felt the wet bandage. _Great. _The deep gash had started to bleed again. 

He still was trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness as some door swung open with a loud clatter and someone was pushed into the room, landing heavily on the floor. As the guard or whoever had pushed the newcomer into the darkness shifted in the doorway, Galahad was able to see that it was the girl who had tended to Aelric's shoulder before. Her clothes and apron were torn, her bodice ripped and blood was running from her nose. The sight of her, battered and beaten on the floor, unconscious was scandalising. And there it was again. The anger and the revolt flaring up unchecked through mind and body.

"Son of a bitch!" Galahad yelled and lunged himself at the man standing in the door, ignoring the sudden spinning of his vision or the pain. He went straight for the man's throat and closed his hands around it. He vented all his fury on this one, firm grip. This was one small moment of payback, whatever the consequences.

Alarmed by their fellow's stertorous groans, several Saxons came running and tried to pry Galahad away from his victim, but to no avail. The Saxon's face had turned red by now, his eyes started to leave their sockets. As a another Barbarian placed his dagger at Galahad's throat, the knight only sniggered at the threat.

And suddenly Aelric was there looking somewhat amused by the spectacle of five of his men struggling with a truly furious Galahad. He flipped a stick in his hands, grinning widely, waiting.

As the poor, strangled wretch slid from Galahad's hands to the floor, Aelric let out a loud laugh which prompted everyone to turn around to him.

"Well done!" he teased moving closer towards the group, stick still flipping. "Well done, indeed, sir knight."

Galahad who was clearly drained by his effort, stood breathing heavily facing the Saxon leader, head high. He didn't see the blow coming, his vision suddenly unsteady, as the stick hit him with full force just below his arm wound. He screamed and swayed seriously on his two feet. And for a brief moment he wondered how he could be in so much pain, when his arm had suddenly lost all feeling. He tried to move his fingers, but found he couldn't.

"Seize him." Aelric said with a nod at the still swaying Galahad.

They dragged the kicking and fighting Sarmatian back into the hall with the great fire as best as they could.

"I see that you're a bit long in learning." Aelric stated, taking up his position in front of Galahad – held by several strong arms – again. "It matters not. I'm in the right mood for some teaching. Horsa!"

The bellowed name, called his cousin to appear. "Do us the honour, will ya? Take his sound arm… Hold him down." Aelric ordered.

Galahad started to strain against the hands, arms and bodies who pushed him down on his knees and held him with unforgiving force. He didn't regret his action; there was no panic in his strain. He was still savouring the slow painful killing he'd just dealt and he used this pleasure to muster up all his force for what would come.

Aelric made a side step as soon as Horsa had gotten hold of Galahad's right arm and held it outstretched. And with one simple move he brought down his stick.

* * *

Trivia: I did not invent the use of birch bark for fever and inflammations, its an old knowledge which is still used today. Look at your packet of Aspirin: acetylsalicylic acid and it's found in the bark of the birch tree. Don't forget if you're out of Aspirin... find a birch tree. -) 

Kate: Thank you so much for your loving sic! review. I wonder how I deserved so much praise. "blush" I wanted to take a moment to answer your question, that's why I've moved the AN to the end.  
Sarmatia was the region between the Vistula River (today: Poland) and the Caspian Sea (think of today's Ukraine). If you try looking up the terms _Alans_ or _Alani _(Herodotus mentions this Sarmatian tribe, as well as the Rhoxolani) it'll be easier to find their location at the time of the big migrations. (A nice detail from another source: funnily enough Tacitus mentions Sarmatia as well in direct relation with the 'Germans' _The whole of Germany is thus bounded; separated from Gaul, from Rhoetia and Pannonia, by the rivers Rhine and Danube; from Sarmatia and Dacia by mutual fear, or by high mountains_.)  
It's true that this region does have a normal continental climate and is not extremely hot or dry. Although, when I think back of my last summer in Lithuania… I must say it does get pretty hot, depending on the region. I did think along the same lines you did, and you're right stating that Britain's climate wouldn't be that much different from Sarmatia. What can I say. Lancelot's rants about the weather… funnily enough a lot of authors have picked that up, although Gawain does the complaining in the film… try to see it as his charming nature or the 'old times' syndrome adapted to become 'ah, at home… everything was better…'. I'm sorry that I can't offer you a better scholarly explanation, it's just the way I feel my beloved character -)) Isn't he a charmer?

Lefty: Thank you for your precise review. Another Galahad fan… sigh I'm sorry for what I'm putting you through… really. I love him too… I kept him alive, didn't I?


	8. Ash, Ruin and Demise IV1

AN: Thank you, thank you once more for the lovely reviews you're sending me! OK. This next part chapter (he!) is going to be a far stretch for you. I can't do much about it, except asking you for your patience. You've read so far and I hope you'll stay with me through this one: an old acquaintance makes an appearance. He may well be someone you know, but he's different. Completely. Please keep that in mind while reading this.  
Another thing. I'm putting this up now, because I need to have it out of my stormy head and because the ending is quite natural. So instead of dragging three other scenes in, I decided to cut it short. I hope you enjoy it anyway… Love. Y.-

* * *

**_Ash, Ruin and Demise (cont.) _**

Tristan let himself fall on one on the long wooden benches in front of the stables and sighed deeply as his muscles finally started to relax a bit. He stretched his neck and back, feeling worn out.

The woad healers had finally reached the wall and with them they had brought their bard to ease the passing of their dying warriors. The air was filled with sweet sounds of a lonely harp lending comfort to the suffering and peace to the parting.

Tristan – together with Dagonet – had helped to tend to the wounded and dying and he was quite sure that neither his clothes nor his sight could take any more blood, or his ears any more screams. _Blast_, they had won a critical battle and he felt as if the world had just shut its eyes on them, leaving everything to itself. He turned his head and looked up at the sky seeing the stars for the first time in several days. There was a faint misty veil over the moon giving it a strong halo and thus accenting the milky reflection of simple white light of coldness. He felt that he himself was starting to be affected by the music reaching him through the stable doors. Washing over him in a soothing wave of pearly chords.

Someone slumped down beside him just as heavily as he had only minutes before.

"It's starting to get cold." Tristan said, just to break the silence and was granted a low grunt as a reply. "Something's on your mind." he stated.

"Something?" came the sarcastic reply.

"What is it Dagonet?"

Inhaling sharply, Dagonet shifted his weight and turned to look at Tristan, a worried expression on his face. "Arthur."

Tristan only nodded. "I know."

He stood, crossing his arms before him, never taking his eyes away from the moon.

"Tristan… I've never seen him like that. Not even when the Legion left…" Dagonet let his voice trail off.

"That's because he still had a cause back then." Neither one of them had noticed Merlin approaching them as the woad's steps were used to go unobserved.

"Suantraighe… the sleeping tune is putting the misery to sleep for tonight, my friends. It helps the parting souls to find their way and grants the wounded a healing slumber." Merlin stood and listened for a moment, half whishing the tune would reach his haunted ally, Arthur. "You too should rest now. Arthur will find again what he's missing… rest assured."

"It's not a cause he's missing." Gawain – stern and tensed – had overheard his companions' words as he came to the stables to check on them and to deliver his news.

"It's faith he's lacking." He said stepping closer. "Faith in himself and in us."

"What?" Dagonet hissed.

Gawain only drew his plaid closer around him against the chilly night, before answering, his anger at Arthur's unresponsiveness barely masked: "Maybe he will snap out of his stupor, maybe he won't. I for my part… I don't care if he has lost his mind, his God or whatever cause Arthur thought he had. We need to get Galahad back. He is sick and he is alone. He needs us."

Dagonet and Tristan exchanged a quick glance sharing the same discomfort at Gawain's words. Quite obviously the loss of Galahad to the Saxons affected the knight badly, just as Lancelot's defeat had delved Arthur into a sea of doubt.

"But for now, we're called to a meeting. A messenger has come." Gawain stated calmly, oblivious of the look that passed between his friends.

-

Arthur turned around as someone called his name. He had once more climbed up the parapet of the wall to find some peace to think. He would have to announce more bad news to his friends and he wondered how many blows he could take before he would lose his mind.

The stranger stepped up to him with a gentle smile on his face. "I heard what happened today… and… I am sorry."

Arthur only nodded and turned back to look out on the grey illuminated hills to the north.

The stranger placed his hand on Arthur's shoulder – covered in the red crimson coloured cloak that still marked his former position as commander of the garrison at Badonicus.

"You seem weary, my friend." he said.

Arthur could barely manage a laugh. "You don't even know half of it, my lord." He turned to look at the man's face. Germanus of Gaul, Duke and Praefectus of Armorica – once a vain warrior of men high in the Emperor's esteem, now a loyal servant of God – a deacon in bishop Amator of Auxerre's service. Although his clothes were simple, he was still dressed like a man of the world, betraying his position in the Empire and his ancestral wealth.

"I need to speak with you on a pressing matter, Arthur." Germanus said.

"My lord, whatever it may be…" – "Please." The Roman insisted.

Arthur only nodded, slightly taken aback by the duke's insistence.

"I know that this day has held a lot of pain for you and I am sorry to add to that. But what I am about to tell you… Arthur. I did not come just to visit the only son of my best friend… although of course it was my intention when I announced myself to you some weeks ago."

Arthur turned around and leaned against the cold stones of Hadrian's Wall.

"Things have changed since then. It's no secret that the Barbarians are moving all over Europe. God knows that we did everything we could for Italy. We even summoned the Legio XX back from Britain. But I fear the loss of our Homeland five years ago was only the beginning of our doom, Arthur. And now… the Emperor's choice to move to Ravenna turns out to have been a wise move."

"Please, my lord. I know all that…" Arthur stated impatiently.

"Arthur. The Goths have taken Spain and the south of Gaul has fallen to the Vandals. We're losing everything." Arthur's heart began to race, but another interjection was cut off by Germanus' stern voice and a raised hand, as he continued: "Last week a dispatch came from Ravenna: Alaric is laying siege to Rome itself. And I'm telling you if Priscius Attalus gets his way with the senate, the city… will fall."

An uncomfortable silence settled between the two men. Arthur could hear the light breeze rustling the leaves of the forest nearby. He pressed his hands on his eyes, lightly massaging his nose as if fighting off a nagging headache and sighed heavily.

Rome. Eternal city of the organised world, a beautiful icon of civilisation and intellectual sophistication. At the mercy of the Barbarian horde. Unthinkable. A horrid vision of burnt buildings overlooked by noble statues of long dead figures of myth flashed up in Arthur's mind. He saw the founding stones of the world tremble, condemned to stand by and observe.

"Ill news indeed, my lord… ill news. And now?"

"Now? The Barbarians will claim everything. And the corruption of the Senate will help them. Then, my dear friend, we all will be subjected to their will."

"Good God." Arthur exclaimed.

Germanus did not react or resent the curse. If there ever was a time for such a thing as rightful cursing, this would be the moment.

"Last night, I remembered Pelagius' lesson about Belsazar." Arthur finally said.

Germanus sighed in agreement, having turned the same verses of the scripture in his mind in the long hours of his journey.

"Now I know why. Oh, curse my vanity."

"You're right, Arthur. Not you, but Rome… our world… has been weighed and it has been found wanting. Terribly wanting." Germanus said, a sad note in his words.

They could but stand in silence, contemplating what the future held for them… as men, as warriors, as Christians… as Romans.

* * *

A cry of pain in the darkness. Followed by laboured breathing… coughing. Galahad lay sprawled on the damp floor, plunged in utter darkness. 

He tried to move again. He was lying on his back and every cough sent another wave of pain though his whole body.

"You shouldn't move so much" a female voice stated wearily. But Galahad was too shattered to reply anything appropriate.

"I know you…" she said. "… you're Galahad." A moan was her only answer.

When the cough finally subsided, he sighed: "I don't think I had the pleasure, my lady."

"Yes, you have. We have met at the garrison. My name is Elaine." More coughing.

He gasped. Of course he remembered her. She was quite close to Venora, always present for every birthday and feast. But, as so often we wander through the world, meeting figures, faces along the way, without ever really registering either the person that carried the face or seeing the heart behind the face, he had never really got to her.

"I… am sorry. I did not recognise you."

"No wonder…" She did not finish the sentence as tears started to well up again and she feared her voice would betray her weakness shrouded by the merciful darkness.

Galahad on the other hand tried in silence to draw the balance of his health. He was shivering rather heavily and a crushing weakness filled his limbs. The fever was back at full force, the clearness of the last morning only a short episode. He barely had any feeling or power over his arms, although a constant pain drained him with every passing moment. He wished he could just sleep, escape the soreness… this state of misery. He had his eyes closed as he lay in the dirt, musing that his chances of ever getting out of this dark hole were limited at best. Non existent, more likely.

That's when he heard the stifled weeping somewhere to his left. Reacting instinctively he tried to get up. Only to land on the floor again, crying out in agony. He broke into a sweat and started to curse. Now he knew why the Saxons hadn't taken the care to bind his hands. With his right arm broken and his left arm still bleeding, he simply couldn't get up, try as he might.

Elaine had kept herself at a distance of the knight. And although he was the first familiar face in days of torture, she would have preferred to be left alone. But as she heard the knight's vain attempts to get up and reach her, she was touched by his wish to comfort her.

"Please…" Galahad whispered, barely audible. "I can't get up." The sound of his voice, unsteady now, almost like a child's call for help, caused a wave of compassion to wash over her. Maybe it was the simple reaction to someone else's suffering that made her forget her own, and be it only for a moment.

With the same small, tortured voice Galahad spoke to the darkness. "I know that probably the last thing you want to comfort you right now are the arms of a man. But…" He didn't finish the phrase, fearing to touch upon things she preferred to keep to herself. She came hesitantly to him, placing her head on his burning chest. But as he tried to put an arm around her shoulders, he cursed again. He couldn't even manage a simple embrace.

"I'm sorry, Elaine." He said sighing deeply. And suddenly Galahad remembered a distant smell of wild roses and some brown hair floating in the air.

"What for?" There was a slight laugh in her voice.

"For not being able to protect you."

She laughed again; but there was a bitter note in it. "Typical. Venora was right about you lot. Really… you have two broken arms and judging from your brow…," she reached for his sweaty forehead, "…are in fever. … And all you find to worry about is me?" Galahad managed a smile and started to cough again.

"You need to sit up, the cough will only get worse while lying on the floor." Elaine stated matter-of-factly.

She got up and helped him to lean against the nearest wall.

"Where are we?" he asked after he had finally recovered some breath to speak.

"My father's farm. The Saxons were upon us like a whirlwind. I have no idea how long I've been in here. The days pass without a sign. And would they not still have my father I would have tried to flee to the wall or into death a long time ago." Her voice was firm and he could feel that she meant every word, although he could feel her cool tears against his shivering torso.

"And what happened to you?" she asked at length.

"The Saxons tried to take Corbridge. Lancelot fell." The horrid truth spilled from Galahad's lips as for the first time he faced the images from the previous day.

"Lancelot?" She gasped.

He didn't care to answer. All he could think of was seeing his companion, covered in blood, lying dead on the green ground of Britain. _Lancelot is dead. There… I've said it. Gone. A simple word, simply thought… _He closed his eyes again as the first tears of sorrow started to find their way unable to fight them any longer. He was still buried in his thoughts as the door opened and an almost blinding light hit the wall beside him.

* * *

Gawain closed the door behind him with a loud clatter. Everybody was present and had taken their place at the Round Table. All but Arthur. He passed Bors as he went for his chair – not managing to hide a slight limp from his arrow wound – and paused. 

"How is Lancelot?" he asked briskly.

Bors looked up to him with a raised eyebrow. "Nice to see you too, Gawain. He's sleeping. No fever so far."

Gawain exhaled, openly relieved, but remaining silent.

"Seems like a miracle if you ask me. But then again, he always was a sturdy bastard that one." Bors' smile went unanswered as Gawain stared into the void.

The second door swung open and Arthur entered with Duke Germanus and a peasant who looked terribly tired and shaken, Merlin entered last.

"Knights." Arthur started before he had even reached his seat. "The Duke has joined us tonight. He brings grave news and I found it suiting for him to join us."

"Grave news?" Tristan asked with a frown. "Seems we have enough of these going around lately…"

"But first let us drink." Arthur simply ignored Tristan's interjection, lifting his chalice now. "To Galahad and Lancelot." They drank, everyone sending a silent prayer to whoever they prayed to grant a blessing on both their companions.

Dagonet mustered Arthur covertly. He was deep lines in his friend's face, a dark shadow drawn over his brow and he looked as his he had aged several years in the last hours, even his voice sounded depleted. But it wasn't just the exhaustion. Looking at him Dagonet felt as if there was nothing left of the vibrating charism… like a dark cloud had passed over the sun and delved the earth into sudden cold and darkness. The sight upset him and he lowered his gaze.

"Brothers in arms. Now we know why the Saxons are constantly moving: the Barbarians have taken Spain and the Goths are laying a siege to Rome."

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Arthur's voice sounded almost shrill, like shattering glass. "The Empire is lost. Rome under direct attack."

As Arthur started to look around he was met with empty eyes.

"I know that this news does not affect you like it affects me. But I need you to know. And I need your advice." Bors nodded.

"What are the church's intentions now? Treat with Alaric?" Arthur asked Germanus. None of the present knights objected to Germanus' presence. They knew the closeness between him and Arthur and had valued his help on several occasions while they still had been fighting the woads, since Germanus himself had been fighting the Gauls for a long time. After the truce with Merlin and Guinevere, it had been Germanus' influence and ideas that helped to shape the woads' battle tactics and formations against the Saxons.

"I don't know the pope's intention. But bishop Amator won't yield Armorica. Neither will I. You cannot treat with a Barbarian. You should know that by now, Arthur."

Arthur rested his head on his hands, sighing heavily. He didn't look up as he said: "And yet… I will have to treat with the one standing at my doorstep."

"Why?" Gawain spoke for the first time.

"The Saxons are asking a ransom for Galahad. A ransom I cannot pay."

"Well, that was to be expected…" Tristan interjected before drinking from his cup seeming as detached as ever.

Germanus on the other side of the Round table managed a smile despite the gloomy atmosphere. "Well. I think at least with that I can help you. You know that I am ready to give you everything I can, assist you in any way possible. My family was wealthy enough to leave me substantial means. You're my best friend's son and I swore to protect you. I stand true to that oath."

A bitter laugh cut him short. The knights turned on Arthur again. "You cannot help me..."

Anger started to settle back into Gawain's face at these words. "Gods, I've had enough of your pessimism… What on earth is wrong with you? Of course he can help us…"

But Arthur cut him off sharply, motioning the Briton to speak: "Please, Padarn. Tell us what you know…"

The peasant cleared his throat nervously. "The Saxons came… a week ago maybe? I don't know for sure. My daughter and I were taken prisoners; I don't know what happened to the labourers…" He shifted uneasy, feeling the impatience in the grim looking knights around the table. "I was sent by the Saxon leader, Aelric. He tells you that he has Galahad and he's asking a ransom for him. 2000 emperial soldi."

"Goodness!" Germanus gasped.

A tensed silence descended on the assembly again. No man in Britain had that much money. The number was beyond anything the knights or Arthur could imagine. There were only two people in the western world who could afford that much money for a single man's ransom: the Emperor and the Pope.

Merlin, true to his insightful nature, felt the room fill with racing thoughts, dreadful worries and insistent prayer, while nobody spoke a word. The air became rank with it and a dark pressure weighed him down.

"HOW?" suddenly a sharp voice bellowed. The knights thus snapped from their thoughts turned alarmed at the newcomer. Arthur stood like he had been hit by lighting.

"ARTHUR!" Lancelot was leaning in the doorway, panting heavily, his hair shining in the flicker of the candles, small beads of sweat trickling down his face.

"How could you even try to keep this from me? How dare you?" he hollered "…from ME?".

"Lancelot…" Gawain quickly got up and moved to the knight who was starting to shiver uncontrollably under the simple blanket around his gaunt, pale body.

But Lancelot put up a hand to stop Gawain from approaching. He was fuming and wanted an answer. He needed an answer. Something had gone utterly wrong, he had felt it in Bors' silence before.

"Arthur?" The voice was cutting through the heavy silence in the room.

Lancelot's eyes delved across the room, right into Arthur's soul, piercing him, challenging him to his very core. The flame of the light in the room reflected in them like fire… like burning charcoal.

Arthur just managed to catch him before he hit the floor. Lancelot took hold of his collar breathing heavily now, hissing: "Since when… is your doubt stronger than your love, brother? Since when…?"

The words tore right through Arthur's already weakened defence and tears started to run down his cheeks. Overwhelmed, he buried his head in Lancelot's shoulder, crying… losing himself in the presence of his brother.

* * *

Another Note: Ha! You're still here? Good. Because I still have something to say (go figure…): Germanus of Auxerre (the same as in the movie) as a historical person was one of the major mistakes of the movie. In reality he was a great Roman warrior (that was true in the film) and he came to Britain to organise the local defence of the Britons against the Saxons twice. Here's a link to the historical Germanus and how he became Bishop of Auxerre (against his own wish btw): www.newadvent. org/ cathen/ 06472b. htm  
Since I advanced Pelagius death and we're in 408, and Germanus only became Bishop in 418, everything fits into place more or less. Another thing Germanus only fought the Pelagianism in the 450ies not Pelagius himself… that was Saint Augustine's job.   
I hope you accept my choice to bring him into this, but rest assured he has no hidden agenda, on the contrary… as we will soon see. 

For those interested: informations about the first siege of Rome and Alaric I. the Germanic leader of the Barbarians can be found at wikipedia: en.wikipedia. org/ wiki/ AlaricI


	9. Ash, Ruin and Demise IV2

Soooo… here is the second part of Chapter 8. I'm sorry for the delay and its shortness. But I thought that you might fancy a quick update… I still hope you're enjoying this. ;-))

* * *

**_Ash, Ruin and Demise (cont.)_**

"This is madness…!" Gawain kept walking back and forth through Lancelot's room. After the dramatic appearance of the later, they had carried him back into his room and continued their deliberations there.

Arthur was sitting on the bed, supporting Lancelot who leaned heavily against him. Merlin had taken a seat in the window in the corner of the room, Tristan stood nearby, leaning against the wall and they exchanged a quick glance at Gawain's outburst.

Padarn, uncomfortably standing in the middle of the room, had just told them what he could about the Saxons and their number. "… I am sorry, my lords. But I haven't seen much… A lot of them are camping in the forest that borders my lands. And some of them seem to be camping more to the south. I have been locked up most of the time… But it looks like they keep coming. Several ships are still expected from what I could understand…"

All turned on Bors for he cursed sending the plague and worse to the Saxons camped only several ligues away from them. "Ah, don't you look at me like that… it's not as if you didn't think the same thing…" he looked defiantly at Dagonet standing beside him, who only placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him.

Arthur sighed. "What can we do? We cannot attack, their number is too great already and Aelric would kill Galahad before anyone had the chance to free him. I don't have the money to free him on neutral terms and Aelric knows that, so we can't trick him into anything." He lowered his head, defeated again.

"This is Galahad we're talking about, friends." Lancelot stated with a voice that sounded weak, but had not lost its power just yet. He was just as pale as he'd ever been since the battle, competing with the chalked wall behind him. "He'll try what he can…"

"That's if he's still able to do anything… we all know his temper…" Tristan murmured.

Gawain turned to him, glaring angrily. "Don't…" was all he said and it held everything that needed to be said. He crossed his arms and stood tensed at the foot of Lancelot's bed.

"My Friends. Maybe there is a way." It was Germanus voice that spoke with that natural tone of nobility so renowned in the Roman. "I can ask the bishop for the money." The idea was met with several frowns and relieved sighs, but he continued: "But, there may well be a problem… Not that the bishop wouldn't give me the money, considering my services, I could even ask the Emperor. But the times are bad, very bad indeed. And there is something I haven't told you before." He stood and walked over to Arthur, who still held Lancelot in his arms. Germanus was suddenly reminded of the eternal twins Castor and Pollux, they looked so close… resting in the other's presence and if he'd have asked Merlin he'd knew it was hard to tell where one soul ended and the other began.  
"When the first news of Spain reached me, I was at Ravenna on the bishop's errand. I saw the Emperor take the scroll and all turned to ash around us. Of course he immediately started to prepare for the defence of Rome. He sent word to the East, urging Theodosius to help him. But Arthur, he has not forgotten you or your service to the Empire. He asked me to call you back to Rome to join the defence of the city."

"What?" Lancelot snapped edgily.

"I refused to do anything like that. I know Honorius, he only fears for his own safety. But I could never ask you. The defence of Rome or Ravenna is suicide judging the number of Alaric's army. I would not have you anywhere near Rome, for nothing in the world. I was adamant about it which of course… greatly annoyed the Emperor. And the bishop for that matter. I left on rather bad terms… So… If I ask for the money, I already know on what terms the bishop will grant me the sum…"

-

When Guinevere woke, she felt so wonderfully light. She hesitantly opened her eyes, fearing that she would scare the feeling away. She silently thanked Merlin for his gentle hands and his herbs that had scared the pain away for a blessed moment. She breathed deeply, but slowly due to her broken ribs and immersed herself completely into the smell of sweet Verbena that filled the room. She was still utterly lost in the pale green smell when the door opened and Merlin entered the room. He approached her cautiously, paying respect to her contemplation in sweet remoteness.

"Merlin…" she smiled and there was barely any strain in her expression.

"I see my humble charms have not failed to ease you, my Dear." He answered her smile, shutting away the disturbing news of the night.

"Of course not. Who can resist the healing call of your herbs…?" A slight frown crossed her forehead as she felt Merlin's intention to hide something from her.

"Don't you worry…" he answered her unspoken question. "Here…" he lifted the object he held in his hands "I thought you might need her." And with another smile placed the package at her side.

"Ah…" She touched the leather of the bag that protected her harp, softly feeling her loyal companion beneath it. As a future clan leader, Guinevere had taken up the basic studies of the mystical ways of her people as a child, eventually becoming a Bard. She had often thought that maybe she simply lacked the force for the higher rituals of the druid order. Maybe she was just afraid of her own shadows. And had she ever wanted to take the last step to the highest degree of a file, she would have had to face all those fears, those dark parts in her.

While she was still tangled in her dream state, Merlin examined her broken leg with a gentle hand. The swelling was substantial, but it wasn't a bad sign and the bandages only showed a slight bleeding from where the bone had torn the muscles. With a satisfied look he replaced the bandages.

"Merlin." Guinevere started to sit up very slowly not accepting any help. "How is Arthur?" she fixed the Woad leader's eyes, no dreamy distance between them anymore.

_He feels haunted, Guinevere. I cannot see behind the misty veil of time… everything is suspended. He is suffering. And he won't accept any help from us. Please. Don't fear his reaction, Dear. Take your love to him. It may well be the only thing able to heal him._

_- _

Gawain, on the other end of the corridor, closed the door to his own room silently. After Germanus revelation they had all left to mull things over in their minds. Form a plan or come up with a solution.

Bors finally had gone to find his family and Dagonet decided to stay with Lancelot. Tristan and Gawain had gone to the check on the guards. They had wandered from picket to picket in silence. Only Tristan's frown upon parting showed that he knew for Gawain's pain.

He stood in the middle of his room now, his head hanging, the full moon casting a white glow across the room. He wondered when he had ever felt so tired as he did now. The uncertainty of the future weighed him down and he was powerless. It definitely had been a day of firsts. Gawain had never been powerless. Nor had Arthur ever yielded to dread and loss. They were both being tried and tested in their own personal hellish manner.  
Gawain went to the window and his eyes wandered to the east where he suspected Padarn's farm.

_Galahad. Please rest easy tonight. I will come for you.  
Remember what you promised me when I was sick with the fever… remember what you told me. We will die together. You promised. I will not let you break that promise. Never.  
_

Gawain shivered as a cool breeze coming from the sea inland hit him as he stood there, sending all his thoughts towards the place where the other part of his soul was held captive.

-

There was nothing Galahad could do. He had fought as best as he could, had cried for them to stop, had howled like a wounded dog at the Saxons' brutality. 

They had hit him, kicked him, bruised him even more and still he hadn't given in.

So Horsa had ordered for his arms to be bound on his back. And readily two Saxons pulled his hands over his back and bound them – the leather straps cutting into his wrists like knifes. But Horsa wasn't satisfied yet and bound his upper arms as well, pulling his shoulders ever backwards and inflicting a constant pressure on Galahad's already hurting torso and wounded arm.

Then he turned without a word – an evil expression on his face – to where his men had dragged Elaine.

Held back by several strong arms and someone pulling his head upwards Galahad was constrained to watch… and listen. There was nothing he could do.

-

The meeting had not brought any obvious solution to Arthur's racing thoughts. He stood in the courtyard of the garrison, only illuminated by the dim light of the torches nearby. 

"Padarn. I am sorry that you have to go back and that I cannot help you. I wish I could…"

The peasant turned from his horse with a sad face. "I need to… they have my daughter."

Arthur nodded. "We will find a way to get you out."

"I know that you will try. It's all I could ask for." Padarn said as he mounted his horse.

"Thank you, my lord." And with that he spurred his horse and rode off in the cold light of the full moon's night, leaving a lonely Arthur victim to his sombre thoughts again.

_Within the span of one moment my world lies in ruins… _

He was startled as a warm hand took hold of his arm and shoulder, leaning heavily on him. He turned his green eyes on her, wondering how she got here.

"Arthur…" she whispered. "I need to speak with you…"

"How is it that all my wounded friends just jump out of bed to speak with me tonight? You could have sent for me, Dear." He placed his arm around her shoulder to support her. "You'll catch your death out here…"

She accepted the coat he slung around her, but refused to go back inside. They shared a moment of pure silence, no thought or word to disturb their small pocket of peace.

"Why did you let me live?" Guinevere buried in Arthur's strong embrace eventually whispered.

Arthur knew immediately what she was referring to and images of her kneeling before him, deadly wounded flashed before his inner eye.

"You mean… ehm… I… ah…" he stuttered slightly taken aback by the question. "…it… would have been an unjust death. Unnecessary…" He was at a loss for words.

"I have loved you from that day on… ever since… not because you did not kill me, but because you did not hesitate to let me live."

She looked up into the sea of his green eyes, loosing herself in the look once more. "You choose live over death whenever you can, Arthur. It's who you are."

Arthur just stood and accepted the words she offered him. He wondered briefly why he was suddenly filled with this overwhelming feeling of ease and comfort.

"Guinevere…" He buried his face in her hair, giving into her pagan enchantment.

They were like a lonely island in the storm of doubt and terror that raged over the world that night, stranded somewhere between the 'here' and the 'just now', both souls lingering somewhere between persisting and becoming, dying to be reborn.


End file.
